


From below, the rain falls just the same

by Apsacta



Series: Rain, from our fingertips [1]
Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Witch!Eddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26927329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apsacta/pseuds/Apsacta
Summary: Music is all that Eddy's ever wanted, and he'd do anything to get that spot in orchestra.Well, almost anything.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Series: Rain, from our fingertips [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992553
Comments: 35
Kudos: 99





	From below, the rain falls just the same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enlaurement24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enlaurement24/gifts).



> Hi I’m sorta back with a monster.  
> Happy autumn, here’s a witch’s tale to get you in the mood for Halloween.

# Part I: Largo, con anima.

_Bare feet. Wooden floorboard. Open window. It smells of thyme outside. Thyme and rain and something else._

It had started raining, a sign, the moment he left the audition building, _pianissimo_ , tiny teardrops on Eddy’s hands and shoulders, on his violin case, his nose, his hair, his cheeks, _crescendo_ , on the pavement, tiny rivers running down the street, huge blotches on his glasses, against window panes, _fortissimo._ It hasn’t stopped since then.

He came home running, a tiny cloud above his head, grey, like stormy skies, and he kicked his shoes off in the hallway. Wet puddles behind the door. Wet too, at his lashes and inside his throat, the taste of defeat, of non-performance, of wanting it so much but falling just that little bit too short, close enough to touch. Too far.

It rained all day, after that, on the carpet, from the cloud above his head, through practice and rest and distraction, through humble relief and frustrated sighs, unfair branded on his chest, so close. So, so close. He’s never wanted anything else in his life.

_Shaky Hands. Light breeze. The gesture’s unfamiliar, slow, from wrist through palm to open fingers. Largo, con anima._

They’re never mean about it, not really, _thank you for your time, Mr Chen, we’ll call you back_ , polite smiles, tentative advice _, more fire, perhaps, some work on that left hand pizz, maybe,_ soft voices that don’t help, not when he feels the loss trickling down his neck, dripping like the coat that he left hanging on the hook by the door, leaving pools of ‘almost there’, of ‘not quite yet’ that can’t be vanished with a flick of the wrist like the ones left by the rain. 

He knows that’s how the game is played but the disappointment stays, tar-like substance, heavy, sticky, until it feels like the ink under his skin is slowly seeping through to the bones, spreading, until it feels like every note he plays slowly dissolves into the air, dissonant. He wants to stop the bitterness before it arises, doesn’t want his resolve to turn brackish, but there’s no spell to solve this, no easy fix. He’ll keep trying but he needs to be better, somehow. Learn more. Faster.

He’s never wanted anything else but music.

_Halting fingers. Flickering candles. Quiet words. Ritenuto._

He’s never wanted anything else, so here he is, nervous, hesitant. Hopeful. He’s never tried summoning anyone before.

_Tacet._

Seconds, like minutes, trickle in silence. Slow. He counts them, wavering metronome in his head, fluttering feeling in his chest, like his heart beats out of time. Anticipation.

It tickles, this slightly inconvenient inheritance that flows through his veins, increasing struggle to remain still, squirming, itches at his sides that grow as anxiety increases.

He’s not used to this side of it. This is not his domain, strays too far from his comfort zone, fully into blurry territory that he told himself to avoid. A weakness, perhaps, but Eddy has always seen magic as an everyday-life, path-clearing device, and he’s never been one to display it heavily, nor does he want to overuse it. It’s a part of him that he mostly keeps to himself, small spells, practical charms, and an ability to anticipate things that borders on clear-sightedness. Something peculiar but not nefarious. A long way from summoning the occult, but he reassures himself with the thought that dead people are still a far cry from demons.

Something is happening, he can tell. It prickles over his ribs, under his skin, like an undercurrent, like tiny little needles poking at him. It doesn’t hurt but he can’t laugh, and holding it in strains at his chest and jaw. It’s like that, always, a struggle, begging to be let out – he slips, sometimes, to his dismay. Bristle against his spine. No going back now, but he has no intention to. There’s another audition in a couple of months, and this one’s for him, Eddy knows it, he’s determined. All he needs is to learn from the best.

There is no puff of smoke, no thundering sound, no earth shattering open when it happens. It’s nothing spectacular, but it never is. There are no sparkles to his magic, no fireworks. It’s nothing more than a quiet vibration, ripples through the air. No one would notice but Eddy’s trained himself enough with the pulse of the music he plays, with the tremors of his instrument, that he can tell.

When the air changes, shivers, he thinks about his lacking left-hand pizz., thinks virtuoso techniques that can lend him that fire that he supposedly misses, and he hopes, so wild it’s hard to confine it to the inside of his ribcage. There’s an audition soon, and this one’s for him. He knows it. He’ll do what it takes.

So ...

There is a man.

There is a man in Eddy’s living room, and nothing about him is right. Not his stature, not his appearance, his clothing or his looks. Eddy stutters with the shock of it, looks at his hands in betrayal.

“You – you’re no Paganini,” he stammers through the words, shame creeping up his spine.

He’s fucked up before, but never this big.

“Well gee, thank you,” the other replies, openly looks Eddy over as Eddy does the same, ashamed but curious.

No, he’s clearly no Paganini. There’s nothing of him in that smaller build, not the same fire in the dark eyes hidden behind round glasses, darting around the room, intent, the curve of those lips, confidence but not arrogance. Eddy looks at his hands, a habit, but those aren’t the hands he needs. Too small. The stranger’s all dressed in black, instrument in hand. Violinist, Eddy’s got that right at least. Just not the one he was trying to summon. The stranger opens his mouth to speak, probably surprised, certainly confused, but Eddy beats him to it.

“Shit,” he swears, when it dawns on him just how wrong everything went. _Shit, shit._

It’s raining, still, and it’s all that Eddy can hear, in the silence that follows. It feels like it’s pouring down through the roof, icy water rushing down his neck from the top of his head, freezing shame settling, frightful, in the void that’s growing in his chest. It occurs to him, belatedly maybe, that this is not a dead virtuoso that he’s brought to his side, but a very real and very much alive musician, vanished in the middle of a concert, probably, judging from his attire.

_Fuck. Jesus. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“The hell? What exactly,” the violinist begins. He’s still eying Eddy, hasn’t looked away since his eyes settled on him. “What exactly did you... Dude, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddy says, “I’ll fix this, I promise, please don’t freak out,” and he stumbles through an explanation. The words come out jumbled up, uncertain and confusing, and for all that Eddy curses himself mentally, the stranger probably curses him even more. _I wanted... Paganini, perfect pizz., a spot in orchestra... I wanted to learn, to get better..._ It’s hard to explain, even the things that made perfect sense in Eddy’s mind.

To his credit, the stranger listens, although with increasing perplexity. He keeps looking at Eddy with a piercing gaze that never falters, but other than a little twitch at the corner of his lips, he keeps his face pretty neutral. He looks like he’s trying to figure out exactly what’s going on, if anything.

“So you’re... a witch?”

“Yeah.”

“And a musician?”

“Yeah.”

“And you want to get better at... left hand pizz?”

“Everything. I want to get better at everything.”

“Explain how I ended up here again?”

He doesn’t freak out but he’s exhausting, with the questions, with those eyes that look like they’re trying to bore through Eddy’s soul. Maybe he thinks witches don’t have one. Maybe he thinks that if he looks at Eddy intently enough, he’ll spontaneously combust and free him from whatever spell he’s been put under. Maybe... maybe Eddy doesn’t know, but it’s exhausting and in the end he gives in, makes them both a cup of tea, and starts his story again, from the beginning, detailed and linear this time. He answers every question, even the dumb ones, even when the line of that smile curls up, annoying, like he’s already figured Eddy out, unimpressed.

“I’m Brett,” he says, later, sitting at Eddy’s kitchen table, hands wrapped around a warm mug, smile crooked, amused. 

“Eddy.”

_Bare feet. Hushed whispers. Boiling water. It smells of tea inside. Tea and rain and something else._

# Part II: feeling sentimental, half-asleep on the couch.

# 

_(Larghissimo)_

Brett leaves, eventually, with the dawn – once Eddy is sure that he hasn’t made the colossal mistake of binding a living human to him, something he’s pretty sure he’d go straight to hell for. He leaves, with grey light and hushed sounds, and still that half-smile, a little crooked, that calm that is almost unsettling, _thanks for the tea and company, dude, good luck on that audition_. 

He leaves and it’s almost too quiet for a moment, and it’s dumb, because he’s been annoying, talking through the night, keeping Eddy awake, keeping him worried. So many remarks and questions, light sarcastic tone, amused look in dark eyes, _do you try summoning people like this often?_

Eddy should probably go to sleep, or do something, anything, but his brain’s frozen in some deep murky waters, somewhere between disappointment and tiredness, and he can’t really shake the feeling. It lingers in the house, like the smell of the rain through the open windows, like the wet rings of the mugs on the wooden kitchen table, like the faint echo of laughter in the back of his mind, gently mocking, _are all witches like this?_

He could’ve been worse off. A lot of people would have freaked out, some would’ve made fun of him a lot more for this, a lot less gentle. He got lucky, he guesses, that Brett never really understood the enormity of the fuck up, _pretty sure you can’t bind me to you, dude, if you can’t even summon the dead,_ got lucky that he never realised how awful the outcome could have been, _nah, seriously, give me an order, see if I have to follow_ (delighted grin, wicked, when he can ignore it and tell Eddy to go fuck himself), _what did I tell you, dude, I’m sure you’re good at some things, just not that._

Eddy feels his ears turning red, burning, at the simple thought that his family might learn about this, it prickles under his skin, over his ribs, not the good kind of tickle. His mother, if she were here, would look at him with a frown, probably hiding how horrified she would be with the appearance of dissatisfaction. _What did I teach you,_ she would say, _some powers we do not mess with_ , and she would be right, of course. His sister would mock him eternally for the fuck up, rightfully so. What his coven would say if they ever heard about the failed summoning, Eddy prefers not to think about.

It’s quiet, now that the rain has stopped, and Eddy feels displaced, wandering out of his own mind. He’s distracted and one of the mugs breaks when he cleans it. His magic somehow feels a little off, wavering, and he can’t adjust it quite right. On the counter, his blue fish is swimming in frenzied circles, as if Eddy’s insecurities are contagious, perceptible in the vibration in the air, the feeling that something is still lingering around that shouldn’t be.

Music feels off, too. There’s an uncertainty in playing that Eddy’s not used to, at least not in the practice room, and pushing through just won’t do him any good. His brain absolutely refuses to concentrate long enough on it. The more he tries to, the worse it sounds.

He would have tried, anyway, there’s that tenacious streak in him that won’t let him quit at the worst of moments. The knock on the door comes almost as a blessing, then, and Eddy welcomes it. Albeit with a slight feeling of dread sticking to the back of his mind. He isn’t expecting anyone, it’s still way too early for anyone else to be alive, barely even dawn.

He opens the door, reluctant, and he’s greeted by sparkly eyes and a freezing cold cup of bubble tea pushed into his hand, insistent.

“Is it really _that_ bad?”

“I’m sorry what?”

He stares because there’s nothing else he could do, really. What went wrong, for Brett to be back not even twenty minutes after he left?

“Your left hand pizz., is it _really_ shit? Just thought about that, that I never actually got to hear it. You like bubble tea, right? I got you brown sugar. Figured you looked like that kind of guy,” he says, and Eddy doesn’t know how to answer these questions, doesn’t know how to interpret any of it, doesn’t know if he should feel offended.

( _Adagio)_

Brett settles in Eddy’s practice room like it’s his own, jacket off and top button open, relaxed, still that look on his face that says _I’ve got you all figured out, dude,_ and Eddy wonders if he should google Stockholm syndrome, if someone can get attached to you after a freak magic accident.

He plays anyway, because what else is he supposed to do?

He gets nervous, stupidly so, just from the way Brett listens. Intently, with his head a little tilted to the side. It’s dumb and he shouldn’t be, but he can’t read anything on that face, and it’s unsettling.

“Not bad,” Brett says eventually, softer than expected, not as cocky as he’s been through the night, and Eddy could breathe out a sigh of relief at that. “I’m going to be honest, dude, I thought you were going to be shit, given... well, you know,” he continues, eyes crinkling at the corners with quiet delight.

Eddy’s mortified, about being called out like that, about what happened earlier, about being nervous in front of this dude who’s nothing to him, just a chance meeting and some awkward moments, the shame of failing. 

“I’m not that shit,” Eddy’s ears flare up at the offense. He can tell his cheeks are turning red, and it’s embarrassing. He’s not that flustered, usually - but then, he doesn’t usually almost kidnap a guy, so there’s no comparison. This is entirely new territory. “It was a mistake, the summoning thing. I must’ve used a wrong spell or something, because I’m usually, well, I don’t make mistakes like that.”

“I sure hope so,” Brett says before taking a long sip of his own bubble tea. He looks at Eddy. “Okay, cards on table. You want someone to help you prepare for your audition...”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe I can help...”

Before Eddy can open his mouth – whether to protest or accept he isn’t quite sure yet – Brett stops him with a raised finger, a ‘tsk’ at the edge of his lips.

“Sure, I’m not Paganini or whatever musical genius you’ll want to summon next, but let’s be real, you failed once, and I don’t want to be transported here every time you decide to try. So yeah, I figured, why not let me help?”

He rubs the back of his neck while he looks at Eddy tentatively, and it’s almost endearing, that hesitation. Eddy’s almost tempted to accept, except...

“Don’t you have other stuff to do?”

“I can make time.”

Somehow, Eddy isn’t convinced. Nobody is _that_ nice. “What’s the catch?”

Brett just shrugs, but something in the way he does it, catches Eddy’s attention. “No catch. You’re fun, it wouldn’t be that terrible to spend time with you.”

This does even less to convince Eddy, and the ‘ _and?_ ’ that comes next is almost choked out. 

The smile that teeters on the edge of Brett’s lips is back, for just a few seconds, before it drops. “And... a favour for a favour?”

It takes Eddy a few seconds to register. “What kind of favour could you want from...,” he begins, but then, “oh. Oh. No, dude, I’m not hexing someone just so you can get the concertmaster spot or something. Nah. Nah, nah, nah.”

“Not like that!”

It’s Brett’s turn to look deflated, and Eddy can’t help but feel sorry for him. “What kind of favour?” he asks, even though he _knows_ he shouldn’t.

“Nothing illegal dude, don’t worry. Just something that I could come and claim at a later date, if I need to,” Brett says, and that doesn’t reassure Eddy in the slightest. He knew there was a catch.

“I don’t do dark stuff,” Eddy says, preventively.

Brett nods. Eddy would like him to be at least a little bit embarrassed about what he’s asking, but Brett doesn’t seem bothered at all. “It’s fine, no dark stuff,” he just says. Then he smiles encouragingly, and Eddy just hates that it’s the nicest smile that he’s received in a while.

“No conjuring, no harming people, no getting ahead disloyally.”

Brett rolls his eyes but smiles, gentle. “Yeah okay, fine.”

“No telling you about your future.”

“You could do that?”

“No breaking of any law, no intentional damage to someone else’s property,” Eddy continues. Better safe than sorry. He’s got an entire list of these. He’s not about to let anyone find a loophole, not even a fellow musician.

“Gee, you must be fun at parties,” Brett shakes his head, like he’s mildly irritated. Or amused. Eddy can’t really tell. “I got it dude, just vanilla stuff. It’s fine. I’m not asking for anything else.”

“Yeah but... ”

“Do you want that audition or not?”

Something in his tone catches in Eddy’s chest, sharp, with the memory of water trickling down his cheeks, grey clouds, dark thoughts. It seems so long ago when it was only yesterday, and he can taste disappointment again. He knows he’s good enough for it. All he needs is a way to show it. And if Brett can help... well, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that the summoning failed. Eddy wasn’t ready to pay the price anyway.

“Come on,” Brett insists, and he has the audacity to wink at him. “I can see you want to say yes. What do you have to lose?”

“Okay fine, but I have the right to say no to whatever favour you want to claim if I disagree with it.”

Brett nods, suddenly serious. It’s a weird look on him, Eddy thinks, even if he doesn’t know him. “Sure,” Brett says, low, “I don’t force people into things. I’m all for free will and stuff. So, let’s get started?”

“Now?” Eddy’s taken aback, hiccups his question as he thinks about the mess in the house, the broken mug still in the sink, the weird tingles under his skin. He really wasn’t expecting any visit. Magic feels weird, taut and stretched and jumpy, like it hasn’t felt since he hit puberty. It’s going to spark out, he’s pretty sure. But at least Brett’s already aware of what Eddy is. He’s had moments where it was much harder to hide.

“It’s raining again,” Brett points out, and Eddy only then notices the light drumming against the window. “Honestly I don’t really want to go out now. Do you have a better idea?”

( _Andante)_

Brett is a rather good teacher, it turns out. Just the right amount of encouraging. He can be critical, too, but never unfairly so. And whenever he needs to correct something, he does it looking at Eddy with that little glint in his eye, and Eddy can’t be mad at him. Not even when he tells Eddy to practice more, assigns him exercises that are way below Eddy’s actual level, because _it can’t hurt to go back to basics, practice your scales, dummy_ , not even when he shouts ‘ _intonation’_ for no particular reason other than that he likes to startle Eddy sometimes _._ But then he chuckles, amused, and he’s already forgiven, because Eddy kind of likes the way he laughs anyway. He’s a good teacher, because he’s absolutely convinced that Eddy deserves a spot in orchestra, and he’ll do everything to make sure that it happens.

He’s an even better friend. He’s supportive and funny and so, so dumb sometimes. It comes out in bursts, random craziness shining through the little things they do together. He makes Eddy laugh more than he should and buys him bubble tea on the regular, waves Eddy’s offers to pay for any of it with an irritated huff, but then he lets Eddy feed him Chinese takeout when he stays after nightfall, smiles half hazy, criticises the violin playing in the random movie playing in the background while looking at Eddy with badly concealed fondness. There’s pride, when Eddy nails a passage that even Brett finds difficult, but always the edge of a tease too, he’ll make fun of him anyway. 

Sometimes, Eddy wants to call him an evil tempter, because he does have a propensity to distract Eddy from whatever they should be doing, offers to play video games tumbling easy from his lips, _Eddy, bro, just five minutes_ , _one more game, I know I can beat you._

He lets Eddy win. Eddy doesn’t know it, until he does, until one day his friend Oliver comes over, and Brett takes pleasure in not just beating him but completely destroying him, his competitiveness turning vicious, victory making his eyes sparkle, proud when he turns to Eddy with that wicked grin of his.

All things considered, Eddy spends more time with Brett than he should, probably. But the audition is nearing and he doesn’t have a choice, right? Playing with Brett does help him improve, and if he enjoys it, then where’s the harm in that? And maybe, just maybe, he neglects some other activities, doesn’t work on things when he needs to, forgets to call his mom as often as he should, leaves his sister hanging in the middle of a conversation, distracted by a familiar knock on the door. Maybe he gets late to one too many coven meetings, and gets told off for it, Grace telling him bluntly, almost mean, ‘ _it’s like you’re in love with this dude, stop smiling, it’s gonna bite you in the arse’,_ Anthea frowning, caught between freaking out and fawning, ‘ _aww Eddy, is it really, how did you meet, is he nice, when do we meet him?’_

He never tells them the truth about the meeting. Because he’s not dumb. He doesn’t tell them about the deal they made either, because then Anthea would really freak out, _careful who you promise magic to,_ and Grace would turn fully mean, pinch his ears until he turns red. So he lets them talk, they don’t listen to his protests anyway, _no, can’t I have friends now, what’s this, a dictatorship,_ but the next time they meet he turns their drinks sour, out of childish pettiness, and Shaun looks at him like he knows, shakes his head and sighs, ‘ _don’t_ ’ he mouths, warning at the tip of his lips, but then nothing.

Eddy tries not to mention Brett too much after that, keeps him to himself, almost jealously. There’s something about having this one thing that is just his, somewhere at the crossroads between his music and his magic, a little bit of both, and yet distinct from those circles. Eddy doesn’t like to think about it too much. 

He’s fascinated by Brett’s left hand pizz., by the way his fingers always seem to find the right spot on the fingerboard. His hands are smaller than Eddy’s and it shouldn’t be enticing but it is, delicate, shiny, impressive as well, that confidence when he shows Eddy what he can do, a smirk at the corner of his lips. Eddy wants to learn that as well, wants to keep seeing that spark, the satisfaction of showing off. He wants to keep it a little while longer, fond already of this new friend he’s made, and he doesn’t think about the deal they have anymore. 

Sometimes, it looks like Brett’s fascinated by Eddy as well, by his magic, and he watches with amused eyes at first how Eddy just solves domestic issues with a flick of the wrist, music sheet collected, glasses cleaned, living room floor neat and tidy. It doesn’t take long for Eddy to want to impress him, to make it look more complicated, make it look pretty. He pushes it, proud when Brett’s eyes widen, delighted when he laughs, chest full when he goes silent and nods, _you’re not shit at all, dude,_ the ultimate satisfaction.

( _Allegro_ )

Brett stays over sometimes, out of his own accord. He settles into Eddy’s couch with ease, sinking in even deeper than he already is, bad posture and crooked smile, but even if he protests, Eddy doesn’t really mind.

When it happens for the first time, it’s because of the rain. _Fitting_ , Eddy thinks later.

It’s pouring outside, cold and drum-like, and Eddy would offer him to stay but he doesn’t really dare. Because of how it would sound, because of that thing that Shaun said over coffee one day, almost casually, _careful hey, some things can’t be fixed with a spell_ , because of the way Grace rolls her eyes every time Eddy denies anything.

“I don’t really want to go out right now,” Brett whines, “it’s cold. I don’t like it,” and he settles in Eddy’s couch, makes himself comfortable, and ultimately, saves Eddy the trouble of having to ask.

So Brett stays, and it won’t be the last time. He sleeps on Eddy’s couch, huddled in a hoodie that he’s stolen from Eddy and covered in more blankets than anyone should reasonably need, and smiles a little sheepishly when Eddy wakes up the next morning. 

“You’re not early,” he comments with a wry smile, in the kitchen where he’s probably been snooping around.

Eddy shakes his head and pushes the palms of his hands against his eyes. It might not be early for Brett, but it still is for him. He can’t even begin to see straight, with his head still hazy, and proper thinking will have to wait till later.

“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep,” Eddy mutters. “Did you... was it alright... the couch?” Words still leave his mind a little wrong, and he just hopes that it makes sense to Brett.

“Yeah, thanks. Should’ve woken me up dude, we could’ve practiced for your audition.”

He smiles at Eddy like Eddy’s a puppy, like he wants to pet him for a second, then he breaks into a wider grin, and the sparkles in his eyes are not a good sign, not that early in the morning, when Eddy can’t think and won’t be able to refuse him anything.

“Coffee?” Eddy offers quickly, before Brett can charm him into doing whatever’s just crossed his mind, “or tea?”

“Coffee’s fine,” Brett says, though Eddy suspects that it is for his own benefit more than Brett’s. Brett doesn’t need something to make him more awake than he already is. He’s bouncing on the soles of his feet already, hands behind his back, eyes on Eddy.

“How long have you been awake?”

“A while. I watched this little dude while I waited for you to emerge.”

Brett saunters to the fish tank on the counter, and taps on the glass with one finger, looking at the grey betta fish inside.

“Don’t annoy him,” Eddy warns before he turns his attention back to the coffee. One thing at a time. He doesn’t have much brain space for anything else. “He’ll change colours again if you do.”

“Oh, does he? I did think he was different yesterday,” Brett’s eyes twinkle, “is it a familiar’s thing then?”

“Not a familiar,” Eddy yawns. “Just a moody fish. I think I’ve had Mozart for too long maybe. Picked up a few tricks along the way. Magic trickles out, y’know.”

He’s too tired and can’t give it any more thought, so he turns his back and stretches up to get the cups from the shelves, wondering which one to give Brett. It’s very quiet for a second, except for Brett humming softly to Mozart’s symphony n°40.

He feels Brett’s gaze just from the prickles down his ribs and up his back, it feels exactly the same as when his magic’s acting up. What he doesn’t expect is for Brett to reach out, warm fingers poking at his left side, following the edge of the coloured lines that wrap around his back, the curves of flowers and leaves that are barely visible now that they’re peeking out from under the hem of his shirt. He feels shivers up his back, all the way to his shoulders. It tickles, and Eddy squirms before jumping away, a high-pitched whine dying in the back of his throat.

“Tickles,” he complains once he’s at a safe distance, away from the menace of those pesky fingers, “don’t do that, it tickles.”

Brett pays his words no attention whatsoever. “I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” he says very slowly.

“It’s a witch thing,” Eddy mutters, the tip of his ears burning red for no reason at all. “Sage and lavender,” he adds upon seeing Brett’s questioning look.

“Looks like a big one,” Brett says, and his lips curl up at a corner, and he adds, “looks like it’s a nice one. Show me, some day?”

His eyes sparkle before he reaches over to Eddy and brushes his thumb against the ink, and the shivers flare up again, and then Brett tickles up his ribs, forcing Eddy to fold onto the ground with another high-pitched scream.

“Do you have any?” Eddy asks, more to distract himself than because he’s really curious. “Tattoos, I mean.”

Brett shakes his head. “Nope. Only a couple of scars.”

“Oh?”

Brett waves his hand, pretends that he hasn’t heard the questioning inflexion in Eddy’s voice. “How do you feel about busking?” he asks instead.

And so, even though Eddy hasn’t been busking since he was a child, even though he doesn’t particularly feel like standing outside for hours and fears the rain from how grey the clouds look, they go busking. Because Brett has a way of convincing Eddy to do things under the flimsiest of pretences, _busking will help with performance stress, good for your audition_ , and it lasts the whole afternoon. Because despite Brett saying ‘only ten minutes’, it never is only ten minutes with him, and Eddy just enjoys their time together too much to really be bothered anyway.

And so, Brett steals another one of Eddy’s hoodies, for warmth, really steals it, because he leaves with it and never brings it back, and Eddy can’t find it in himself to care. If Brett wanted to steal all of his stuff then fine, he’d just buy new ones. He’s getting lessons and shared practice for free, after all. Fair trade. At least that’s what he tells himself.

( _Vivace_ )

Brett is chaos personified sometimes, in a way that is completely new to Eddy.

He’s only serious and focused when it comes to music – so much, Eddy thinks, shaking his head every time it crosses his thoughts, the hours that Brett spends with him, forcing progress out of him, slow and painful, the time they both put into it, it’s amazing that they still have a life on top of that. The rest of the time, it’s pretty much ‘come what may’ and ‘I’ll do it just because I feel like it’, and it’s scary in a way that Eddy, who’s always liked to know where he was going, has never really experienced before. He’s never really let people take over his life like that before.

Brett will drag Eddy out at the unholiest of hours, without explanation, and Eddy will let him do it, for some reason still unknown to him. Brett comes knocking at his door at nightfall with a wicked grin and a sparkle in his eye and they’ll be out halfway through the night because he just had to show Eddy something. Or he wants Eddy to come with him to a concert, doesn’t want to go home immediately after, drags Eddy to the only bubble tea place that’s still open, then he’s hungry and they end up eating cheap takeout on Eddy’s kitchen floor at two in the morning. Or he drags Eddy to a bar just to go on and on about a specific part of a specific violin concerto until Eddy’s so tired that he has to tell Brett to stop.

Or he shows up in the morning, when Eddy’s barely awake, barely functioning, and Eddy can’t remember whether or not they’ve planned to meet that day. But Brett is there so he follows him to the practice room, hours and hours, until he feels like his arms might fall off but Brett’s encouraging words push him further, _two more weeks dude, you’ll blow their minds_. And Eddy’s way too proud to question it when Brett puts an end to the practice to pull him outside again, _you need to breathe, let’s hike up the hills._ He’s crazy for sure, neither of them are in a shape to do any of the stuff that Brett wants them to do, ill-equipped as they are, but once there’s something in Brett’s head it’s impossible to make him change course.

Brett is chaos and he is fire, the fire that Eddy thinks he’s been missing in his playing before. It’s easier when Brett’s confident, to show the same spark, the spark that Eddy used to keep to himself, confined to the practice room, to the days without an audience. Brett brings fire to Eddy’s playing, and that’s maybe why Eddy has the tendency to burn things when he’s around, food mostly, whenever he tries to cook something, and Brett jokes about it every day they see each other after that, Eddy never hears the end of it. Just like he never hears the end of that one time, just one time, Brett joked about setting violas on fire and Eddy’s magic chose that precise moment to act up, lighting candles all across the room.

Brett can be mean, too, gratuitous sometimes, acerbic when he criticises fake violin playing, without mercy to anyone who misrepresents classical music. Eddy’s seen him glare daggers at fake buskers, and obliterate anyone who stands in his way with a calm and icy glare. Scary.

There’s a coldness to the way he can destroy someone with just a few words when he’s annoyed, and it rubs off on Eddy sometimes, the desire for petty revenge, and he has to take a deep breath, bribe Brett out of his dark mood with bubble tea and Janine Jansen recordings.

He’s a little goblin, sometimes. The way his nose scrunches up, the giggles that bubble in his chest, malicious with delight, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he makes fun of something, amused chants ringing inside Eddy’s chest, _Eddy, Eddy, Eddy, c’mon, c’mon._ He makes faces at Mozart in his fish tank, stares at him when Eddy’s busy, taps on the glass just to annoy the fish. Mean.

He takes all of Eddy’s troubles to heart, too, unkind to anyone hindering him in any way, encouraging Eddy to do his worst, _you should just curse him, c’mon, just this once, I would._ He seems to boil inside when Eddy recounts old auditions, _I would’ve jinxed them, the whole lot, none of them deserve anything_ , mean, mean and petty and plotting revenge on Eddy’s behalf with a coldness in his stare that doesn’t look entirely feigned, nothing for show. This Brett scares Eddy sometimes, when the spark in his eyes turns into determination, forest fire ready to burn everything. Eddy wouldn’t like to see this Brett get angry.

( _Prestissimo_ )

Brett can be very nice, too, kind with words and looks and little smiles that make Eddy want to be nice and kind as well.

Eddy doesn’t name them immediately, all these little things that he does, and maybe it’s out of conscious blindness, or maybe it’s still too early to say. It’s nothing, at first. Just small gestures. He warms Brett’s coffee with a discreet touch when it grows cold, fixes his rosin when it splinters, dries the sheet music drenched by the rain. These are all tiny things, no consequences, no hidden meaning, he would do it for anyone. He does.

“You’re my best mate,” he tells Brett one day, feeling sentimental, half asleep on the couch and dangerously leaning towards Brett, and Brett chuckles and pats him on the head, _sure Eddy, you know it_. It drops somewhere in Eddy’s stomach, then, with the weight of a lie. It’s not exactly true, is it?

It grows stronger with this attachment that he’s so bad at concealing, sparkles at the tip of his fingers, _anything for you_ , make it bigger, make it better, and it only takes Brett’s suggestion for Eddy to conjure things out of the ether, trinkets, odds and ends mentioned in passing, once, bigger, bigger until it crosses his mind that maybe Brett is testing him, seeing how far he would go. But however far Eddy goes, Brett then goes further, in his own way, pushy, anything goes, _just ask me, I can get you a spot in orchestra, just ask me._ He takes it upon himself to feed Eddy, cooks for him regularly now, doesn’t even burn the kitchen down, or maybe once, but they won’t talk about it, the fascination for the flames in his eyes, they won’t mention it. 

It’s not worrying because they’re friends, _you’re my best mate,_ chuckling on the practice room floor, sheet music everywhere, a disaster, _a hurricane indoors, you absolute fucking dumbass_ , messy hair, messy clothes, sparkly eyes, _you pushed me, you always make me do the dumbest shit_ , and it’s nice and funny and warm, _I didn’t think you’d follow, dummy._

It’s not worrying, that Eddy wants him impressed, looking at him with delighted eyes, wants him dazzled, it’s not worrying but he can hear it clear as day, then, Thea chirping in the back of his mind, fond, _aww Eddy,_ just loud enough to cover Grace’s snorting _, it’ll bite you in the arse,_ and the freshly conjured magnolia flowers vanish in smoke, Eddy’s neck turning crimson, burning.

 _You’re my best mate,_ but Brett looks at Eddy intently, eyes piercing, says ‘ _sure Eddy_ ’ in a way that might mean something else, something more, and for all that Eddy is clear-sighted, Brett might see more, understand more, and Eddy shivers with the implication.

It tickles, under his skin, over his ribs, wraps all around him, colours burning brighter. It tickles more, growing and he wants to laugh, no fun in holding back anymore. It’s good but Eddy worries, too powerful, overflowing, if it keeps on growing people will know, the eyes behind those glasses, he can’t really look away, wide smile, chewed up lips, teeth slightly pulled forward, he knows, he’s watched. He knows the bend of a wrist and the shape of fingernails, fiddling fingers, bony shoulders, he’s learned the tone of a voice and the pitch of a laugh, familiar, and he worries.

‘ _Sure, Eddy, you know it_ ’ Brett says, but it’s no longer comfortable to fall asleep against his shoulder in front of the TV when Eddy’s dreamt about the shape of his knees and the stretch of his back, can still see the fire with his eyes closed, _you’re my best mate,_ eyes and ears and mouth and throat, _sure Eddy. You know it._

It’s no longer comfortable when Brett pokes at his tattoo to wake him up, just short of a tickle, lingers on it a bit too long, itching, the hint of something.

“You’re curious,” Eddy says, and he’s not tired enough that he doesn’t feel self-conscious about it, something scratchy in the back of his throat.

“I still haven’t seen all of it,” Brett says. “You still haven’t shown me,” he says, voice so low that it catches in the back of Eddy’s throat and he loses all his bearings for a moment, blaring sirens in his brain.

 _You still haven’t shown me,_ and in that moment Eddy wants to, all of it, blacks and purples and greens, the burn of Brett’s eyes up his back, the weight of his stare. He can almost feel it, trembles from the thought of it, the slow going up, taking in the muscles, harsh lines and soft curves. Brett’s attention, just on him, his skin and his flesh and his bones. His gaze, over his sides, counting the leaves over his ribs, up his spine, slow, his lips curving upwards. He won’t touch but it’ll melt Eddy just the same, tickles on his skin, inside, stretching over his shoulder-blades, the sparks under the ink everywhere those eyes land, over his shoulder, tiny flames licking at his throat. It’s going to burn. He wants to.

“You don’t have to, hey,” Brett says, voice back to normal, and Eddy snaps out of his daze, a little burn on the back of his throat still faintly present.

He scrambles away a little, it burns different now, and there’s still a little flash in Brett’s eye, an ember that’s not quite dead yet, and the temptation that it ushers in bothers Eddy more than he’d have expected it.

“Eddy?”

He shakes his head a bit, to get the last traces of smoke out of his mind. “Sorry, I – huh – I was distracted. What did you say?”

“Nothing dude, forget it. Go back to sleep Eddy.”

( _Moderato_ )

It’s very quiet in the days that follow, to the point where Eddy thinks that maybe they’ve broken something in the strange but comfortable dynamic that they’d created through the weeks, and he doesn’t know whether he wants to go back to the safety of comfort, or push forward, to wherever this is going.

He’s only a few days away from the audition now. He can feel the pressure bubbling up in the pit of his stomach, so he doesn’t really have time for anything else, anyway. It’s make or break this time, Eddy thinks. He doesn’t know if he’ll have any energy left to try again once more.

He can see the same pressure he feels on his chest reflected on Brett’s face, tightened lips, not his usual smirk. He’s serious. It’s not unusual when it comes to music, but this level of concentration surprises even Eddy, even more so when Brett has absolutely no skin in the game. He’ll tell Eddy to relax, that he’s got this, but it’s harder to believe, when Brett is tense himself. It puts Eddy on edge as well, the way Brett looks at him with piercing eyes, _if you want me to get you a spot in orchestra, you know, make sure you pass this audition, just ask_. Eddy appreciates the sentiment but he doesn’t understand why it’s become as important for Brett as it is for him.

It’s very quiet in the days that follow, and maybe Eddy is imagining things, but he has the impression that Brett is expecting something from him. He just doesn’t know what.

He feels it in the hollow between his shoulder blades, that he wants something from Brett too, something other than the practice and the gushing over music. He doesn’t know how to ask.

It’s good, that he’s got the music to distract him, take his thoughts away from Brett’s inquiring eyes, from the drumming of his fingers, the way Eddy wants to reach out for them.

He wants this audition, because music is all he’s ever wanted, because he’s worked hard enough to get it, all his life poured into those twenty minutes or something. He wants this audition, but if he gets it, what then? If he gets it, will Brett still come over every weekend, push bubble tea into Eddy’s already awaiting hands to bribe him into going along with whatever plan he’s thought up? If he gets it, will he still fall asleep, every other day, to the sounds of Brett trying to find the most comfortable position on Eddy’s couch, will he still wake up to Brett sitting on the countertop in the kitchen, engaged in the weirdest staring contest Eddy’s ever seen with Mozart the fish?

Or will it all be done? Will Brett congratulate him and go his merry way, ask for this favour that he wants from Eddy – they made a deal, after all – and then be off to bother some other unsuspecting soul, until they too feel like they start to need him more than is decently imaginable?

Eddy doesn’t think that this will happen, but how could he be sure when he’s too chicken to ask anyway?

So they tiptoe around each other for a couple of days. It’s easier to focus on the music that way. But Eddy can’t help it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s the thought that the feelings that he’s starting to develop go far beyond simple friendship, way more than just gratitude.

And then, even deeper in the confines of his mind, there’s the fear that Brett isn’t entirely oblivious to the things going on in Eddy’s head. He isn’t stupid, after all, and maybe Eddy’s hesitation is for a lot in that stickiness between them.

Eddy cannot worry about this now. Not when there is so much on the line for him. He’ll think about this – whatever _this_ is – about Brett, later. For now the only word in his vocabulary is practice, and he’ll approach it with concentration and seriousness that leave no space for anything else.

( _Presto_ )

“This won’t do,” Brett says, “it’s not enough,” and Eddy looks at him with alarm.

There’s two days left, and if Brett thinks that this isn’t good enough, then Eddy’s heart is threatening to jump out of his chest through his throat, and Brett is right, this is not good, not good at all.

“You’re too safe, dude,” Brett adds when he sees the wavering look in Eddy’s eyes. “You won’t stand out if you play it that safe.”

“I can’t – ”

“Yeah, you can. I’m not saying you need to go full-on questionable interpretation, but take a few risks maybe? Where is the guy who used an obscure summoning spell to get playing advice, uh?”

He looks at Eddy like he’s expecting an answer when Eddy doesn’t have any. He doesn’t feel any different, not in the way he plays anyway. He certainly doesn’t feel like he’s been playing safer than before.

“Maybe we practiced too much,” Brett says, and Eddy wants to answer that there isn’t such a thing as too much practice, but Brett’s already poking him between the eyebrows with that crooked smile of his. “You need to stop thinking so much. Not everything has to be calculated. Relax, bro.”

The thing is that Eddy can’t relax. For a vast array of reasons. And the audition isn’t even the most prominent amongst them. But Brett doesn’t listen to any of his protests.

“Then let’s at least have fun with it. I’ve got a better idea.”

Given the vast scope of Brett’s usual ideas, playing Eddy’s audition piece with the two of them on one violin isn’t that much of a bad idea. At least Eddy can get some practice done, still, and it doesn’t involve destroying half his practice room. Or it wouldn’t, if it wasn’t so goddamn ridiculous, and they weren’t so dramatically bad at it that the whole thing has Brett almost rolling on the floor from laughter after less than ten minutes, while Eddy thinks _not funny at all_. But Brett’s having too much fun, almost in tears, _ugly little gremlin,_ and Eddy can’t be mad at him anyway, not when his laugh is so contagious that his own cheeks hurt from too much smiling.

It takes a while for the both of them to catch their breaths, music disregarded for a moment as they try to compose themselves.

“You’re fucking crazy, bro,” Eddy says as he turns to look at Brett. His ribs still hurt from laughing, painful as they expand to make space for all this, the jokes and the bubble teas and those crazy ideas, space for the way those eyes twinkle, mean with fire sometimes, but never when they look at him, space for that crackhead energy that fills him to the brim, childish wonder at the fun that he can still have.

Brett’s lips curl up, mischievous, like he knows. “You love it.”

He does. He loves the company, this strange arrangement they have, the fact that he can share music with someone who already knows that when Eddy gets into a piece, _really_ gets into it, there will be slip ups, his magic will spark in unexpected ways, because he forgets. He loves the way Brett’s eyes linger on him sometimes, too, and so he looks at Brett and smiles softly, shakes his head for a semblance of denial. “You’re awfully full of yourself.”

Eddy looks at Brett and Brett looks back at him, smile crooked, one eyebrow going up, that confidence that Eddy’s noticed since the very beginning. There’s a spot on his lower lip that he chews on, sometimes. Eddy’s noticed it before, notices it again now, the way that grin softens, just for him. He leans over without really thinking.

They kiss slowly, easy, and Brett’s fingers gradually slip between Eddy’s, pressing lightly against the back of his hand.

It’s soft, but Eddy’s heart still beats in his ears when they separate, flutters behind his ribcage, and he watches Brett through half-lidded eyes, the fleeting worry on his face before he lunges forward again, harder this time, teeth knocking in the process.

( _Grave_ )

It startles Eddy when Brett pulls away suddenly, like he has to force himself, and he swears, _fuck_ , slams his hand against the wall, _fuck, no, no!_

“I’m sorry,” Eddy says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“No,” and Brett kisses him again, three rapid kisses pressed to the corner of his mouth, before he pulls Eddy down to press their foreheads together at an uncomfortable angle. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t lie, Eddy, right?”

Eddy doesn’t understand but it feels like the room is on fire, the air too heavy, and he feels familiar tingles under his skin, magic acting up again, and he has to brace himself for impact, but it stops before anything can happen.

“Not now,” Brett says, voice dark, as he takes a few steps back, and Eddy’s magic calms down, retreats back.

He continues - before Eddy has a chance to open his mouth to ask what the fuck is going on - as if he were afraid that nothing would come out if he waited. “I can’t let you do this, not until you know.”

“What...”

“Let me finish,” Brett continues, and there’s an urgency to his voice that he doesn’t really manage to soften with the small ‘ _please_ ’ he adds. “I just didn’t think you needed to know. Until now. I was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Needed to know what?” Eddy asks, even though he kind of knows already that it can’t be good, whatever it is. He feels it in his veins, in the way he feels it boiling just from the words Brett used.

“That it wasn’t a coincidence. You didn’t fuck up your summoning. You just used the wrong one.” Brett tilts his head, eyes downcast, and he sighs, heavy. “How did you expect to summon the dead with a spell to summon the devil, hey?”

# Interlude

(quietly, to themselves, with their hands in front of their mouths like children.)

_That was..._

_...something, for sure._

_That fire..._

_I’m not sure about..._

_...but the anger, the passion..._

(louder, to Eddy, with careful neutrality.)

_Thank you for your time, Mr. Chen. We’ll call you back._

# Part III: there’s still a sting, an echo of something.

( _Pesante_ )

It ends, like that, dumb, with a few words and a confession.

_How did you expect to summon the dead with a spell to summon the devil, hey?_

It ends there and it’s almost like it never happened at all, except that it’s lonely in Eddy’s house, too quiet, and the way the floorboards creak sounds ominous now, and there’s cups of bubble tea in the fridge that Eddy doesn’t dare touching. There’s something missing and even Mozart the fish seems a little bewildered by the change, by the way Eddy just lingers, restless.

_What do you mean, summoning the devil?_

It ends there and it’s almost like it never happened at all, except that it has happened and that it left Eddy with nothing but betrayal on his tongue, sharp taste of deception, of being played for a fool, and Eddy feels it inside his veins, simmering bitterness. It hurts. It hurts and it burns, inside his chest and somewhere along his spine.

_I – you called, so... you called me so I came..._

He holds it together through the audition and the days that follow, pushes through with obsessive determination because he can’t believe, _he just can’t believe_ , what has happened. And because he has to, what other choice is there? What do they matter, these last months? What does it matter, that anger bleeds through everything he does, scares his friends and family?

_It’s a joke, right? Right? Please..._

And if Eddy breaks down when all is done, who cares really? He won’t tell anyone what happened anyway. He won’t mention a word about it. And it may burn in the back of his throat when his sister asks ‘ _what happened to your new friend, Brett was it?’,_ and it may feel like he wants to scratch the inside of his eyelids clean every time he wakes up with the memory of his laugh and his touch in his dreams, but it’s nothing. Just a bitter taste in the back of his mouth that will go away.

_It’s not what you think, Eddy, please._

He’ll keep the shame that trickles down his spine when he thinks about it quiet, lock it somewhere deep, deep in the back of his mind, and no one ever needs to know, that feeling of being backed into a corner, trapped, fooled. No one needs to know how it hurts and that he’d cry tears of rage if he allowed himself. But he won’t do that, and no one will ever, ever know.

_Why would you... What were you trying to get from me?_

And sure, Grace will ask ‘ _where’s your boyfriend?’,_ teasing, and Eddy will laugh, not bitter at all, and Anthea will wonder aloud why Eddy doesn’t talk about him anymore, and he’ll just pretend that he didn’t hear. And Shaun will say ‘ _are you okay, Eddy?’_ and he’ll shake his head slightly when Eddy answers yes, but what can he do about it. Eddy won’t ever tell them.

_I wasn’t... I didn’t..._

Eddy won’t say a word.

_So what, you were trying to trick me? Sign my soul up for a spot in orchestra? You just couldn’t wait..._

It never happened.

_I didn’t want anything from you, I swear..._

As far as he’s concerned, it never happened.

_Well, then you can leave because you won’t get it as long as I’m alive..._

And maybe it still did happen, anyway, because Eddy can’t wish it away no matter how much he would like to. And maybe it still hurts, and maybe he still feels ashamed that the devil could fool him like that.

And maybe one day he’ll cry in his mother’s arms and she’ll pet his hair like when he was a child, singing softly into his ear. But she’ll never get the truth out of him, she’ll never know that he was stupid enough to fall in love, despite everything.

( _Dolce_ )

It goes away, slowly, if he doesn’t think about it too much.

The rain falls just the same as before, soft ticking against his window in the morning, and it still smells of thyme and sage in the garden outside, and Mozart quietens down in his tank, swims in slow circles, changes colours less often. They’re getting used to the silence in the house again, slowly, softly falling back into a routine.

Eddy makes tea in the mornings and he practices violin in the afternoons, reads more books and walks around the neighbourhood when it gets too stuffy inside. He calls his mother on Mondays, does the shopping on Tuesdays, and goes to coven meetings on Fridays. He has friends over to play video games sometimes, beats Shaun and Oliver at Smash with vicious pride, and lets Grace drag him to the coast to see the humpback whales, and even if they don’t see any it’s nice anyway. He falls asleep on her shoulder on the drive back and she doesn’t even pinch his ear to wake him up. 

He doesn’t touch the bubble teas in the fridge.

He stops worrying about the results of his audition.

He doesn’t dream about him, at least not every night.

Sometimes, there’s still a sting, an echo of something, laughter in the back of his mind, playful smirk in the corner of his eye, but Eddy’s good at ignoring things, even the most obvious ones. He’ll pick up his violin and play through his repertoire for a couple of hours, Mozart, the real one, and Sibelius, and Korngold – it feels nice in the comfort of his practice room, just Eddy and the music, and in the kitchen, a fish that slowly swims in circles in his tank. Or he’ll talk to his sister about magic and music and the difference between the two, meet Shaun for coffee and not talk at all, or listen to Thea talk about her love for all things vegetal, plants and flowers that Eddy can never manage to keep alive himself. Keep himself busy.

Thinking about it doesn’t help, so Eddy won’t. He’s got enough to focus on with everything else, anyway. He’s got friends, real ones, not fake friendships based on lies and deceit, and it’s more than enough for him. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? For all Eddy knows, none of it was even real. And if none of it was ever real, then there is no need to dwell on it.

And if his real friends notice that he still seems off sometimes, that his eyes drift into space at moments, that he bites on his lower lip in frustration and that his fingers clench around nothing sometimes, like they’re trying to hold onto something that isn’t there, then they say nothing about it. Maybe they’re a bit more protective, maybe Oliver calls more often and Shaun hugs him more, maybe Grace teases more kindly and maybe Thea suddenly takes an interest in classical music. Maybe Eddy knows what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. But if no one says the name, then he doesn’t have to think about it.

Then, the orchestra calls. On a Friday, at the end of the third week, when Eddy’s almost given up all hopes of ever hearing from them again.

They call, and it’s not the same as all the other calls. Eddy can hear it just from the tone of their voice and he doesn’t want to give into false hopes, but it tickles the back of his neck before he even hears the words. His heart jolts up at them, _congratulations, Mr. Chen, and welcome,_ and he has to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from giggling like a child. He’s still smiling and his heart’s still beating in his ears when he calls his mom and then his sister. 

He’s worked too hard not to celebrate the win, but somehow, somewhere, it feels like something is missing, and Eddy could truly cry out of frustration. He tries on his coattails for the first time, and there are no snide remarks about how much it makes him look like a cockroach. There is no hardly concealed look of appreciation either. The fact that he notices the absence makes him want to slam his head into the wall. 

Because no matter what, the fact remains that there’s one person Eddy wanted to tell before all the others, and his enthusiasm drops a little whenever he thinks about it. Then he remembers. It’s funny, to think that none of it would’ve probably happened if it weren’t for Brett – well, the devil. Well, funny in a hurtful way.

Because even though everything is falling into place, life back on its rightful track, Eddy still hurts.

“You have the right to grieve friendships as well,” Eddy’s sister says one day, after she’s called to ask if he feels nervous about his first rehearsal approaching, and she’s right, of course. She often is, even though Eddy would never say to her face.

Except this time she isn’t.

Because this wasn’t simply friendship. It wasn’t when Eddy thought it was real, and it still isn’t now that he knows it never was.

The only thing is that Eddy doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why it happened, what the devil was trying to get from him, and if he stops to think about it, it makes even less sense.

A favour for a favour, Brett had said, that first morning, ages ago. But they never even sealed the deal, so what was it worth? He never even claimed that favour. What was in it for him, in the end? Just the pleasure of seeing Eddy crumble? The satisfaction of causing him pain? 

Somehow, it makes even less sense.

Maybe that’s all that Eddy wants, in the end. Not to go back and not even to forget, but to understand. Maybe that’s the closure he needs in order to go forward, to know why it happened.

( _Agitato_ )

It’s worse, the second time around.

Maybe it’s the silence, the way it falls heavy on everything, trembles in the room. There’s nothing but the sound of Eddy’s breathing and the moth flying against the bedroom window, wings fluttering against the cold glass pane with a quiet buzz.

Maybe it’s the prickles over Eddy’s ribs, under his skin, the anticipation trickling down his spine like an undercurrent. He barely feels the tickles, his entire body tense, skin stretched almost painfully with the apprehension.

Maybe it’s the way the lights flicker in the kitchen, and the way Mozart changes colours, from red to black in rapid succession, the way everything in the house seems suspended.

Eddy’s hands are shaking. More than the last time.

He tries not to think too much about what he’s doing, it’s a mistake, probably, but he needs to know. _A favour for a favour_. He’s done it before. _It’s raining again_. It really shouldn’t be that difficult. _Thanks for the tea and company, dude._ Just a slow movement, starting in his wrist. _You still haven’t shown me._ It’s very much like music, sometimes, and Eddy should be good at both by now. _I don’t do dark stuff._ Loose wrist, open palm. Slow. _You’re my best mate._ Then through his fingers, with feeling. _You love it._ Hold everything back. _I didn’t want anything from you._ And...

Silence.

There is no sparkle, no fireworks, just a quiet vibration that ripples through the air, and then a voice, strained.

“Who were you trying to get, this time? Nathan Milstein?”

“I...”

Eddy doesn’t get it, at first. He can’t really focus, anyway, torn between anger and something else, something that catches inside his chest when he looks up. 

He doesn’t know what he expected. Flames and smoke, maybe, some giant with horns and bat wings or something, red eyes with an evil look in them, a total absence of humanity?

It’s just Brett, standing there, looking smaller than he remembers in that hoodie that he stole from Eddy one day. It’s just Brett, soft and unimpressive, looking at Eddy with calm eyes behind his round glasses. It makes Eddy irrationally angry. What need is there to keep this charade going? Or is this just another way to torture him, perhaps?

“Why do you look like this?”

Eddy’s voice goes a little too high-pitched at that, breaks a little at the end, but Brett at least has the decency to not mention it.

He just shrugs his shoulders. “This is what I look like...”

“No,” Eddy says bluntly. He doesn’t really know why. He wants the devil to look like the devil, not... not a guy who Eddy could share bubble tea with.

“What do you mean? Yeah, it is.”

“But you’re small.”

“Sure... is there a reason why I’m here this time, or was it just another mistake?”

Brett seems mildly irritated, which is totally unfair, given that he is the guilty party, after all. Eddy’s totally innocent, and since he has the power to, he should be allowed to summon the devil whenever and however he wants. Isn’t this the compensation for the fate that awaits him, in the end?

“Well, I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient for you,” he snaps back, “but I have questions.”

“About my appearance?”

Eddy would very much like to tell him to go fuck himself – and he would do it, if he were talking to Brett, but he can’t let the deceptive appearance fool him, he’s not talking to his best friend. He gets red behind the ears just thinking about it, his own voice annoyingly nasal in his memory, _you’re my best mate_ , and oh god, it hits him again as he looks at Brett smirking at him from across the room, that he did a lot more than just telling the devil that they were friends.

And well, just, _fuck_ , this is such a massive wreckage of everything that it makes him angry.

He hadn’t liked someone that much in a long time.

“So what, some requests are allowed and some aren’t? Do you have guidelines? What’s the price to pay to just talk to you, then? Haven’t I already paid it?”

Brett sighs. “Look, Eddy, you told me to leave and so I left. Now you summon me back, and here I am. And ok, you’re angry, and it’s fine, I’m willing to play that game with you if you want, but try to at least get something out of it.”

“Maybe I am,” he says, defensive, but he definitely isn’t. Eddy has absolutely no idea what he is doing. This was not the plan. Get the devil, ask questions, get answers, send him back. That was the plan. It certainly wasn’t the plan to get into petty catfights about height. Or whatever this is. But the thing is... it’s still Brett, and he still smiles like he understands Eddy better than Eddy himself, and he still looks at him the same way, and he thinks that he can just joke about Nathan Milstein and that Eddy will laugh. And he’s wearing Eddy’s hoodie. And that... Well, that’s just rubbing it in.

Brett snorts, goblin-like, and Eddy just wants that ugly little gremlin to shut the fuck up. “Please, stop.”

This doesn’t help. Brett’s eyes light up. Maybe Eddy isn’t getting anything out of the exchange, but he definitely is. “I didn’t think you were into that, but hey, I’m not judging.”

Eddy would curse him, if it wasn’t a surefire way of getting retribution. It doesn’t help at all that there’s a stinging at the corner of his eyes. Too familiar. It’s too easy to just fall back into this.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says, and then it all comes out, “I wish you’d stop trying to be funny. I hate it. I just want to know why you did it. Why did you keep this going for weeks? What was in it for you?”

Brett’s smile disappears slowly. Eddy at least gets that satisfaction. “D’you want the truth?”

“Preferably, yeah.”

“I was bored, Eddy. I was bored, and you were funny and cute, and I thought I could stick around for a while.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

( _Sostenuto_ )

It doesn’t make Eddy feel any better, in the end.

If anything, talking to Brett makes everything worse. Eddy hoped for – well, he doesn’t really know what he hoped for, exactly, but not that. He wanted something to make him feel better. Something that would help him understand why Brett went through all the trouble. He thought that if he could rationalise the whole thing, it would bring him some sort of closure, and he could leave everything behind. A funny story that he could laugh about in his old years, maybe. _Hey, children, have you heard about the day grandpa met the devil?_

The problem is that this doesn’t bring him any of that.

 _‘I was just bored’_ might be the worst thing that he could possibly have said. If this had all been part of some devious plan, then at least there would have been the satisfaction that he put some effort into it. ‘ _I was just bored_ ’ makes Eddy want to break something, set fire to the whole goddamn house, scream until his ears ring.

It might be stupid, but Eddy wants it to have meant something to Brett, even if that something isn’t what Eddy thought it was.

He wants to be worth the effort.

Forgetting is out of the question now, and he hates it, he _fucking_ hates everything, from the way he can picture the drop of Brett’s eyelids to the bitterness that bites at the back of his throat at the memory of his own words, from the acrimonious voice inside his brain telling him that he shouldn’t, to the pull of every muscle in his body telling him that he still wants to. He hates everything about it, because fuck, he can’t stop thinking about it.

He has his first rehearsal in orchestra, and somewhere among the nerves of being the newbie and the shyness of not knowing anyone, he thinks about how he got there, about the rehearsals and the advice, Brett showing up on his doorstep at an impossibly early hour of the morning with a smile. Something in his chest gives at the thought. The misplaced gratefulness that still lingers feels like frostbite, painful prickles at the tip of his fingers as he presses too harshly on his instrument. He would like to dismiss it completely but he can’t, and what irony that he still owes his success to the devil, deal or no deal.

It takes a certain amount of control not to throw everything out the window, kick the music stand and just scream out in frustration.

But he’s too old for that, can’t and won’t behave like a child throwing a tantrum.

It passes as everything else, and the rehearsal returns to its painful monotony, but something keeps festering in the back of Eddy’s mind.

Playing helps, it’s soothing to be able to focus solely on the notes on the page and the ones played by everyone around him. Rehearsal after rehearsal, he gets more familiar with it, more comfortable with it. His deskie is the nicest person, it turns out, years of experience but so much appreciation for the little things in the job, none of that jaded approach that Eddy would have expected. Whenever Eddy makes a mistake – and he makes a few, in the beginning – she’ll just shake her head with a tiny smile, _it’s alright, we’ve all done it, don’t worry_ , and even if Eddy still blushes up to his ears, he feels a little better about it.

And yet.

And yet, sometimes there is something in the music he plays, something in the kind twinkle in his deskie’s eyes, something in the silence that greets him when he comes home tired, the loneliness of putting on one of those dreadful dramas just to think about anything else, and Eddy can’t help it, he misses it. He misses having someone who’ll understand the way he sees music and who’ll laugh about it with him, who can dish advice as well as playful jibes at his playing, and who will be offended at the appalling depiction of classical music in popular media with him.

And maybe, just maybe, he misses having someone slumping next to him on the couch, warmth seeping through. Maybe Eddy won’t admit it too willingly, but there was something about having someone else’s knee pressing into his as he rested, someone’s side against his, a shoulder to fall asleep on, completely natural, the hazy feeling of someone brushing his hair out of his face as he slowly drifted away. And there was something about the feeling that this all meant something.

And there it is again, then. These wretched, festering thoughts in the back of Eddy’s head rise again, bitter. And it all mixes, the hours spent together, the ugly pain in Eddy’s chest, the shared passion, the feeling of utter betrayal, the knowing smiles, _I wanted it to mean something_ , chewed up lips, half eaten lies, a spell to summon the devil, _you called, so I came_ , fingers slowly locking with his, _I was bored, Eddy._

It’s harder to keep the mixed feelings at bay when Eddy’s among his friends, especially when they’re still walking on eggshells around him. It doesn’t help when he’s trying to convince himself that he is perfectly fine.

“I don’t need to be babied,” he snaps one day, after he’s just seen another look exchanged between Grace and Anthea, a look that he’s seen too many times now.

“No one’s babying you,” Thea says gently, and Eddy has to turn towards Shaun and roll his eyes at that, but Shaun just shakes his head, _don’t involve me in this dude,_ his eyes say, _you might not like what comes out of it._

“I’m not dumb,” Eddy starts, and he sees Grace try really hard not to do that thing that she always does when she thinks he’s being stupid.

“No one’s saying that,” Thea says, and again, it’s so obvious that Grace is biting her lips, trying to stop herself.

Eddy turns towards Shaun again for support, _have you seen that shit_ clearly etched on his face.

“Look, Eddy,” Shaun says carefully, “we’re not trying to tell you how to deal with things. But maybe you should go out more? With your colleagues, with friends, with us, maybe? How about we all go out for a drink sometime? Talk a bit?”

Eddy stares at him for a moment with absolutely no reply. He has half a mind to call him a traitor, but he won’t.

“What he’s trying to say,” Grace chimes in when Eddy remains silent, “is that we think you need to get laid.”

“I do not,” Eddy chokes, and his voice goes high-pitched at the end, as his brain unhelpfully supplies him with images of chapped lips, veiny hands, fluttering eyelashes behind round glasses, a stolen hoodie hanging too loosely.

_Hey, children, have you heard about the day grandpa made out with the devil?_

( _Animato_ )

It’s starting to feel almost familiar, summoning the devil. The slow movement of the wrist, natural, almost like holding his bow, prickles along his arm, open fingers, the anticipation that feels weird in his chest, tinged with something that Eddy isn’t fully comfortable naming. The air resonates with silent notes, shivers around the living room. 

Eddy blinks twice, and Brett’s there.

He’s not wearing Eddy’s hoodie this time, but it doesn’t make anything better. “You called?” he says, with a tired smile, and Eddy hesitates.

He isn’t fully sure why he is doing this, to be honest. It’s just that he couldn’t sleep, and his brain wouldn’t leave him alone. He’s still got questions, and he never really got any answer. Talking to Brett seemed like a good idea, at some point in the night. Summoning the devil is a more conflicting thing.

“Hey, why am I here?” Brett asks after a moment of silence. “Not that I don’t want to see you, dude, but for someone who doesn’t want to see me, you sure can’t seem to get enough of me. Sorry. That was out of line. Is there something you want?”

He’s too taken by surprise by the flood of words to really process everything. What Eddy really wants is an apology. But maybe he’s not reached the point where he’s willing to admit that. So, instead of asking for an apology, he asks: “Can we talk?”

Brett nods slowly. “Sure. I still don’t get what you want out of this, but sure. Offer me some tea, maybe? You got us some tea the first time...”

“Don’t push your luck. I’m still mad at you.”

“I see that. Not sure why. Here.”

Eddy blinks for a second and there’s bubble tea in front of him. Again, there’s a bitter taste in the back of his throat. This isn’t going to be easy. He can’t even stop himself before he speaks.

“So that’s how you got all the bubble teas you brought here, uh?”

For a second, the confidence completely slips from Brett’s face and he looks genuinely taken aback. “What difference does it make?”

“At least I paid for the food I gave you. I didn’t magic it out of thin air.”

“You could’ve. Made better use of those powers you have.”

Eddy has to bite himself not to send him back to Hell there and then. He needs to remain in control if he wants to ask actual questions and get actual answers. No matter how much he wants to just let himself be angry. “At least I made an effort,” he mutters under his breath, looking at the ground.

“Would you want me to make an effort?” Brett asks quietly.

“That’s neither here nor there.”

“I think it is.”

“I don’t care what you think.”

It’s awfully quiet in the house, nothing but the wind outside, and it’s raining again, Eddy notices with dismay. It feels an awful lot like the first time that this happened, when he thought he’d just fucked up his summoning and this guy just appeared in his house, and he was just some musician, not the person Eddy came to call his best friend, and certainly not the devil.

Except that he was all along. And that’s what Eddy still can’t wrap his head around.

“Okay,” he says. He’s going to treat this like business. No feelings involved. Better for everyone. “I’m just – I’m gonna ask my questions and then – yeah.”

“Sure, Eddy, you do that.” Brett seems slightly disappointed that this is how Eddy choses to treat the whole thing, perhaps. Eddy doesn’t really understand why, but he won’t dwell on it too much. No need to add to the many questions he already has. Besides, the devil would probably lie to him anyway.

“Right. First things first. Why did you lie?”

Brett winces at that, and maybe Eddy is imagining things – surely Eddy is imagining things – but he looks kind of embarrassed all of a sudden. Eddy would never have thought that it would be that easy to get him to shed his confident look, but here he is, the devil, avoiding his eyes and looking at the ground.

“I didn’t. I’d have told you if you’d asked.”

“Because it’s natural to assume that...,” Eddy starts, but then he takes a deep breath and forces himself to remain in control. “Fine, let’s go with that. I didn’t guess that you were the devil and you didn’t bother correcting me. And then you were bored enough to just stick around.”

He realises, as he’s speaking, how acrimonious his tone sounds. It makes him sound petty and mean. But there is no way around it. He wants to be petty and mean. He’d curse the devil if he could, turn him into a frog, but he’s pretty sure that that would bring more trouble than comfort.

“And then I liked you, and I wanted to help you,” Brett says quietly, but Eddy chooses to ignore it.

“You were bored and so this, yeah, whatever, you said, at the start, a favour for a favour. You said you’d help me prepare for the audition and then you could come and claim a favour later. I... what was it?”

Brett chuckles at that, almost as if he’s genuinely amused. “Not your soul, dummy.”

“I didn’t think it was that...” Eddy protests, but Brett’s smile grows brighter.

“You definitely did.”

“What did you want then?” Eddy asks. He feels his ears turning red and it’s awfully embarrassing.

“Nothing, it was just a way of...”

“No. You must’ve thought of something.”

“You don’t owe me anything Eddy.”

“I’m not saying I owe you. I just want answers.”

“Fine then,” Brett says with a little nod. He looks almost embarrassed for a moment. “You’re a witch, and I needed something for the pain. I lost my wings when I fell, and it hurts sometimes.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, forget it. Did you have anything else you wanted to ask?”

It’s weird that Eddy is troubled by this, unsettling, how very human Brett looks, and it takes a moment for Eddy to collect himself. There is one more thing he needs to know, but it turns out to be harder than he thought to get the words out.

“Why did you decide to tell the truth, then? You could’ve strung me along for a lot longer if you wanted,” he says it all very quickly, like it’s just a passing thought.

“But I couldn’t, Eddy. I couldn’t. Don’t you see?”

He doesn’t see. Or doesn’t want to. Same thing.

“Anything else?” Brett asks.

“I got in,” Eddy blurts out, when the silence threatens to fall again. “In orchestra, I mean. It’s thanks to you, I guess. So thank you.” He shrugs, like it’s not that important.

“Good. Good thing.” Brett’s smile seems a bit off, but who is Eddy to judge, really? His own has been fake since the start of the conversation. “They’re nice to you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they are.” Eddy’s voice trails off a little. This isn’t how he imagined it to go. Not that he imagined telling Brett about it, but... yeah. Whatever.

“Cause if they’re not, I can...” Brett mutters

“Can what?” Eddy asks. “You’re going to curse my orchestra now?”

“No, sorry, nothing. I’m happy. I knew you’d get in. I’m proud.” He seems genuine when he says it, and it’s extremely disturbing, just like the way he awkwardly seems to go for a hug before changing his mind and patting Eddy’s forearm twice before quickly retracting his hand.

“You’re the devil...” Eddy says. He’s not sure how he feels about the idea that the devil is proud of him.

“Yeah, sorry. For what it’s worth, Eddy, I might not have told the truth about who I really was, but everything else was real, just me, no lie.”

And with that, he disappears, and Eddy still has so many questions.

( _Scherzando_ )

When it comes to potions and such, Shaun has always been a lot more talented than Eddy.

Mixing stuff is kind of his thing.

It’s only natural, then, that Eddy goes to him for these things, especially when he doesn’t really know what or how to approach it. Shaun has always been the most easy-going and level-headed of them all, so Eddy doesn’t expect too much questioning or judgment from him. It shouldn’t be too difficult to explain what he needs, anyway.

He’s already brewing something when Eddy gets there, the steam from the bubbling cauldron curling his hair, half of his attention on the mixture, the other on the visitor. There’s a sweet smell that lingers in the kitchen, music playing in the background, and Eddy would feel perfectly comfortable, if it weren’t for the nature of his request.

“Hey, Eddy, it’s been a while since you came over.”

It has. It’s been a while since Eddy went anywhere, really.

“Ah, you know how it is. Work, hey.”

“Sure,” Shaun says as he keeps stirring his mixture. He throws Eddy a quick glance. “So, still you dream job? They haven’t exhausted you with the rehearsals yet?”

“Still good. I’m tired but I like it. Stops me from thinking...”

Shaun nods knowingly. “There’s beer in the fridge if you want, just help yourself. We missed you last Friday.”

It’s light and bright in Shaun’s kitchen, and Eddy feels a little too exposed. He busies himself looking through Shaun’s fridge for a moment, trying to find a good way to engage the conversation onto a path that might lead to where he needs it to go.

“Hmm, was busy,” he mutters, head still in the fridge as he grabs two bottles. Busy summoning the devil, which he’s pretty sure even cool and collected Shaun would freak out about. So he won’t mention. “Watcha doing?” he asks, handing Shaun one of the bottles. “What kind of potion is that?”

Shaun’s shoulders tremble before his face grows red as he chuckles. “Man, Eddy, you must be really tired.” He points at the glass jars on the counter with his chin, his lips pursed to prevent more chuckles from escaping. “It’s raspberry jam. Gimme one of these. Then we can talk.”

“I haven’t come to talk, actually.”

“I know. You’ve come to ask for something. You’re not the only one who’s perceptive, you know. But maybe I want to talk. We haven’t had a conversation, just the two of us, in forever.”

Eddy bites on his bottom lip as he does what Shaun asks. So much for keeping things to himself. Fuck witches and their perceptiveness.

“About that,” he asks after some hesitation, “do you think it’s something that we can lose?”

“Lose what?” Shaun asks, ladle in the air.

“You know. The ability to sense things. Like, I did not... you know... stuff happened and I did not see it coming. Like, at all?”

“Hmm. Unless you have an ability to see the future that you never talked about, I wouldn’t worry. We can miss things. We can be blinded by other things, not see stuff because we don’t want to see them.”

“We can be fooled...” Eddy mutters under his breath.

“Yeah, sure. What are we talking about exactly?”

Eddy watches Shaun cover the jars of jam and clean the kitchen as he hums lightly to the music in the background, some modern thing that Eddy’s never heard before but that is easy to listen to. It fits him and it fits the mood of the place, lulls Eddy into comfort.

“My disastrous love life?” he says before he can stop himself. _Dammit_. Eddy’s pretty sure that Shaun’s got some secret power that he never talked about, that makes people feel just really at ease around him. He’d swallow back his words if he could, but it’s too late for that.

“You really liked him, huh?”

Eddy sighs. “Was it that obvious?”

“Dude...”

“Whatever. Not why I’m here.”

Once he’s done cleaning the kitchen, Shaun brings them to the living room, sinking into a grey couch with a sigh. Eddy looks around as he takes a seat as well, trying to distract himself from the feeling of dread bubbling in the pit of his stomach. It would be easy to let the atmosphere soothe him into a talkative state, but he’s not here about that. How would he even start to explain everything that’s happened to him in the last months? _I summoned the devil and accidentally might have fallen for him, hard?_ Like that would go well.

“Ah, yes, that thing you want to ask,” Shaun says, lighting a fire in the fireplace from his seat. “How embarrassing can it be that you’re beating around the bush since you came here?”

“It’s not embarrassing,” Eddy says as his eyes widen. “I was wondering if you could help me with something against back pain.”

“Sure,” Shaun shrugs. “Do you need magic for that though? Maybe normal medicine...”

“Not for me,” Eddy interrupts quickly, “it’s – uh – a friend, I guess.”

For a moment, Shaun looks about to say something, it’s obvious from the way his brow furrows and his smile drops, but then he changes his mind, shakes his head. “What kind of pain?”

Truth is that Eddy doesn’t really know, because he didn’t bother asking. How could he describe something when he has no idea what it is? He didn’t want to think about it, because then he knew he’d feel sorry, and he’s not reached that point yet. He can’t actually believe he’s following through with this. There is no reasonable way to explain why, and it’s probably just going to make things worse. He just knows that he’s been thinking about it for days, and it won’t go away unless he does it. He does feel like he has a debt to repay, after all.

“Scars, I assume,” he says when Shaun doesn’t stop looking at him with inquisitive eyes, and he feels a shiver down his spine at the thought. “Probably. Painful I think.”

Shaun nods, thinks about it for a second, then nods again. He doesn’t smile again though, serious when he looks Eddy in the eye. “I think I know something, yeah.”

“Thank you, Shaun. It’s important.”

“I figured. You’ll need some help, probably. We can start now, if you want.”

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

Shaun sighs. “You’re sure you’re doing this, Eddy?”

“I – yeah. Yeah, I am.”

( _Appassionato_ )

Eddy can’t believe he’s doing this again.

He’s stayed far away from anything that was even remotely occult for his entire life, and now in the space of a few months, he’s summoning the devil for the fourth time. If this isn’t a metaphor for the direction he is taking in life, then he doesn’t know what it is.

It’s worrying as well, how easy this is all becoming, how confident he is about it. He doesn’t even have to think about the movements anymore, they come naturally, and if Mozart is freaking out in the kitchen, permanently a bright shade of red now, the anticipation that builds in Eddy’s chest has nothing to do with anxiety. There’s pride, in the way he doesn’t even have to wonder whether he will succeed or not.

“Missing me already?” Brett asks after the air in the room has shifted and the lights have flickered twice.

Eddy can almost hear the notes now, like a very soft melody, and the tickles along his ribs don’t feel as painful anymore.

“You could always choose not to show up if I’m bothering you,” he counters, not missing a beat. “From what I’ve heard you’re not always the most reliable.”

“Maybe I want to show up. Maybe _I_ missed you.” 

This succeeds in shutting Eddy up for a moment, and he stares briefly before he manages to regain his composure.

“Well, would you believe that...”

“What is it?” Brett asks. His smile is not as tired as the last time Eddy saw him, and it stretches upward mischievously. “Do you need me to deal with someone in your orchestra after all?”

Eddy gapes in horror for a second before he realises that Brett is joking, and his brow creases in frustration. Despite the familiarity of it all, he wishes Brett wouldn’t try to go for easy banter. Eddy is this close to giving in. He doesn’t need one more push towards it.

“I’ve got you something,” he says, reluctant now, but it’s too late, he’s already committed. The last remaining reservations he has are melting like snow under the sun when he sees the twinkle in Brett’s eyes.

“Oooh, a present?”

“Something for your back... You said...”

Brett’s staring at him like he’s in a daze, and he visibly has to shake himself out of it. “What?”

“The thing you asked?” Eddy says tentatively, searching for the balm he prepared. “Now I kept my end of the deal, yeah?”

The silence from Brett isn’t helping Eddy’s confidence, and he feels like he’s rambling.

“I hope it works. I didn’t, I didn’t know what you needed exactly...” he trails off, uncertain.

“Your end of the ... what?” Brett says eventually.

“A favour for a favour?” Eddy says.

Brett finally moves, and he shakes his head slowly, little specs of ashes falling to the ground as he does so.

Eddy winces at the mess it’ll make on the carpet, dumb, his only thoughts focusing on his surroundings, the way the wind rustles the leaves outside, the light that is still on in the kitchen and that flickers with the sudden influx of power, Mozart in his tank over there, making rounds, more nervous than he should be, given that nothing is happening.

 _Shit_. He should have made tea before he started the summoning. Brett would have liked that, perhaps. It certainly would’ve made for a more comfortable situation.

“It wasn’t a real deal, Eddy,” Brett says softly. “Not the kind of deal where you have to keep your word unless... you know.”

Eddy can see the offended frown that flits across his own face in the window across, tries to repress it, but from the way Brett’s lips curl up a little, amused, he knows that he’s been found out.

“It was one to me,” he protests. “You kept your end of the bargain, you helped me practice for the audition and I got the job because of that. Now I’ve kept mine. Here.”

He pushes it in Brett’s hands a little forcefully. It’s not that he’s annoyed, but he had sort of expected a little more gratitude. Maybe a thank you. Maybe... no, Eddy doesn’t want to think further than that.

Brett looks at him like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s just been given, and Eddy frets a little. He thinks back to the piece that he’s rehearsing in orchestra for the first concert of the season, and how he would like Brett’s advice on some parts of it, thinks back to that tea that he should’ve had ready to offer, and _dammit,_ maybe it’s not too late to do it now, but it’ll be awkward, Brett waiting in the kitchen as Eddy prepares it, too much like it used to be before.

Eddy wants to talk again, get more of an explanation from Brett, a reason for all this, even though he knows that there’s never going to be more than what they’ve already talked about.

It’s dumb, but Brett looks at him with questions in his eyes and Eddy thinks about the last show he watched, the one with the terrible violin playing, and he wonders if Brett would still want to watch it too, if he would comment like he used to, a little acerbic, trying to make Eddy laugh with his remarks, looking at him expectantly, waiting for it.

“Do you want tea?” Eddy asks, “maybe we can...”

“I – Eddy, I can’t...” Brett says at the same time, looking maybe a little embarrassed. “It’s...” he takes a deep breath, his cheeks turning slightly pink, “it’s very nice, but I can’t ... I can’t apply it on my own...”

And _oh. Fuck._

Eddy didn’t even think about that.

He sure feels dumb now.

“I – maybe I can help?” He doesn’t know what possesses him to say it, but once he’s started he powers through, forces cheerfulness to hide his own embarrassment.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, why not. Come on, I’ll do it. Yeah? Take off your shirt...” He trails off, awkward, wishing he wouldn’t blush just from saying this.

“You’re blushing,” Brett remarks unhelpfully, and Eddy has to focus on Brett’s hands to avoid the amused look in his eyes.

It doesn’t help when those hands start to work on the buttons of his shirt.

“Cold,” Brett complains, and it at least has the advantage to tear Eddy’s gaze away from the myriad of beauty spots that draw constellations on his back.

“It’s not that cold,” Eddy protests, forcing himself not to look at his own shaking fingers. “For fuck’s sake, it’s perfectly fine here.”

“I’m used to warmer climates,” Brett says, which is a delicate way of saying Hell, Eddy’s got to give him that.

“Warmer climates,” Eddy scoffs, shaking his head. There’s a shiver that runs up Brett’s spine, and Eddy’s gaze focuses on him again. “Dude, stop shivering.”

“I can’t help it. Can we focus on the task at hand, here?”

The scars are not what Eddy expected, even though he tried his best not to think about it at all, or about any other part of Brett’s skin, for that matter. He takes a little bit of the balm between his fingers, and brings them to the sharp jagged lines on either side of the devil’s spine, paler and cleaner than Eddy had anticipated, but a lot larger and longer as well. His entire hand wouldn’t be enough to cover it.

Brett yelps when Eddy starts applying it, a tiny high-pitched sound that makes Eddy chuckle against his better judgement.

“Cold! At least warm it up between your fingers.”

There are shivers going all the way up Brett’s spine again until they reach his shoulders, his entire back tense with it, _hurry up please_ whispered so softly that Eddy barely hears it. Eddy shakes his head and rolls his eyes, thinks ‘ _what a baby_ ’ but doesn’t say a word, he’s not stupid. He tries to warm up the balm a little the next time though.

“Does it hurt a lot?” Eddy says as he follows the indentation.

“Yes.”

He feels bad for asking, now, feels bad for the whole thing, for being curious about it still, for the tone with which Brett adds _sometimes, on bad days,_ in a voice that is only destined to reassure Eddy, still. His fingers drift away from the scars, over the spine, and for the first time he wishes that he didn’t have those violin calluses, wishes he could make this softer, _I’m sorry your wings were cut off_. Brett’s skin is warm despite his feeling cold, softer than it has any right to be, _they weren’t cut off, Eddy,_ and Eddy’s fingers catch in the indentations again.

“Your skin is so soft,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything else.

“Did you expect scales?” Brett replies, and Eddy has to snort at the absurdity.

“This is what you really look like, then?”

“I told you, didn’t I?”

“I was thinking horns and a pointy tail,” Eddy admits softly.

“Sometimes...”

“Oh... Can I see?”

“Do you want to?”

There’s something hopeful in Brett’s voice that makes Eddy’s chest feel tight. He sighs, rests his forehead against Brett’s neck and closes his eyes.

“Someday, yeah?”

“So ...,” Brett’s voice is softer than usual, tentative. “So, we’re good now? Friends again?”

“I don’t know,” Eddy answers honestly. “I’m still mad, I think. But then...” He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and tries to trace the constellations to distract himself from his own beating heart. “Maybe I didn’t tell the truth either. Maybe you were never just my best friend.”

He feels Brett’s sharp intake of air, but doesn’t leave him time to say anything before he tilts his head and presses his lips against his shoulder. It reverberates all the way through Eddy’s chest, settles in his stomach, tight and painful. He’s not sure why he did it, wants to do it again.

“Eddy...”

“Is this not good?” Eddy murmurs, a kiss pressed to the base of Brett’s neck. “Don’t you want to...”

“I do. You have no idea how weak I am. But not now, not like this.” 

# Part IV: Witches have always belonged to the devil, anyway.

( _Mezzo piano_ )

The night of the first concert seems like it’s never going to come, and all throughout the week the rehearsals get more and more painful, dragging on until Eddy cannot hear the piece anymore without feeling dread settling low in his gut. Mahler 6 is a beast and the nerves are building up. He’s growing more and more afraid that he’s simply going to faint on the stage and just lie on the ground like a dead fish for the duration of the representation.

The fact that everyone around him tells him not to worry isn’t helping in the slightest, but if there is one positive thing about the monotony of slowly trickling days and the stress of the impending performance, it is that there is very little time for anything else in Eddy’s life, which might be a good thing, given how confusing everything is. Better focus on the music and just leave the rest for later. With a bit of luck, everything will sort itself out. Or magically disappear. Hopefully.

The day of the wretched representation comes too quickly, in the end. It’s almost like time that had slowed down suddenly decides to run, and all of a sudden Eddy’s waiting backstage, trying not to shake and feeling absolutely ridiculous in coattails, of all things. He wants to tell his deskie to just bury him under the stage if he drops dead from the nerves, but they’re not at that level yet so he just nods when she whispers good luck and follows her.

Time takes a different consistency when he plays. It stretches and accelerates in a rhythm that doesn’t always follow the music. One moment it seems like it’s not an hour that is left but ten, and the next moment it’s almost done and Eddy isn’t sure what happened.

It feels both incredibly good and incredibly draining, but there is a smile that doesn’t leave Eddy’s face, even after the applause has stopped and he has left his seat.

He’s still smiling as he says goodbye to his deskie, feeling mildly proud of her words of approval, still smiling as he packs up to get ready to leave the building, still smiling as a voice startles him on his way to the exit.

“It was the nicest Mahler I’ve heard in a while...”

Eddy turns round, and of course... “How did you get in?”

“I have my ways,” Brett says, all sparkly eyes and wicked smiles. “I’m not lying, by the way. It was really good.”

Eddy shakes his head. “What are you doing here? Is this gonna be awkward?”

Brett chuckles. Eddy might find the situation a little embarrassing, given how their last encounter ended, but Brett seems perfectly fine with it.

“Well, if you’re finding this awkward, then this is going to make it worse,” and then he produces a few flowers with a grin.

“What the fuck?”

“What? It’s your first performance. I thought – congratulations.”

“And what the hell am I supposed to do with it?”

“Most people put them in water, but whatever you want I guess. I paid for them and all.” There’s pride, and he looks at Eddy expectantly.

Eddy shakes his head and sighs, but chooses not to ask where the money came from. “Thanks. It’s very nice.”

Brett lights up. “See, I can be nice. Still the devil, just so we’re honest this time, but I can be nice. Just wanted to congratulate you. No ulterior motive – well, I say no ulterior motive... you must be hungry, right? D’you want to go for food? Nice coattails by the way. Hot. So, Chinese food? I was thinking hotpot, right? My treat.”

It’s such a constant stream of words that they’ve reached the door before Eddy can properly process everything. He’s kind of just following Brett along, and it all feels oddly familiar.

“I – uhm – about this...”

“Ah, fuck. You’re tired. I should’ve known. Of course, you want to go home. My bad. Maybe I can walk you home?”

“Geez, dude, breathe,” Eddy has to interject before Brett can add another word. Talk about being hyper. “It’s fine. Food sounds good. It’s weird, but fine.”

He’s not quite sure what exactly he’s agreed to, but it’s very easy to be swept away by Brett’s enthusiasm and just agree with whatever. It can’t be that bad, although his motives – ulterior or not – are a little unclear to Eddy. It doesn’t help that he really is tired, and also really, really hungry. Anyone offering him food right now would win his affection, devil or not.

It’s a little weirder following him through town still dressed in his concert clothes, something he’s sworn never to do lest he wants to look like a freaking psycho, but walking with the devil does have its advantages there. Anyone who stares for a little too long is on the receiving end of such a deathly glare that they quickly look away.

It’s weird and awkward until it isn’t, which is relatively quickly, Eddy has to admit. It’s too easy to fall back into the comfortable dynamic that they created before, and maybe Eddy’s just tired, but he finds that he doesn’t really mind, after all. The food helps, as well, and Brett’s just... well, he’s just Brett, and it’s just way too easy to be charmed by him. Eddy suspects that he’s doing it on purpose, pushing it, but again, he doesn’t really mind. Being the centre of Brett’s attention is almost as heady as the rush of adrenaline he gets from playing on stage.

“Food was great,” Eddy mumbles when they get out of the restaurant, forced by its closing time. “What’s next?”

“Sleep, for you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you dozing off half a dozen times.” 

“What about you?” Eddy asks. He sort of knows the answer he’s hoping to get, and it’s a testament to his tiredness that he isn’t more freaked out about it.

“I’ll walk you home, if you let me,” Brett replies quietly.

“Afraid that I’ll fall asleep on the pavement if you leave me?” It’s a poor attempt at humour that Eddy realises all too well is destined to cover the real question he wants to ask. _And after that, what?_

“Well, that and, I just like being with you.”

No matter how much Eddy wants it to last, Brett’s picked a restaurant suspiciously close to his house, and it only takes a mere five minute – one drama roast and two viola jokes – before he’s stood in front of his door and Brett’s leaving him with a goodnight and a wink that Eddy can’t quite decipher.

It’s oddly quiet inside after the music and the constant ringing of Brett’s laughter, and Eddy feels something that resembles regret a little too much to be comfortable. It’s been a nice evening, and he can’t decide what was better, the concert or everything that happened afterwards. There’s a part of him – a large part of him – that cannot help but wish it had lasted longer, despite the tiredness, despite everything else.

He’s not stupid, and he’s beyond the point where he can still lie to himself. He’s got it bad for the devil, and it’s just a shame that they had to part ways at all.

Tea, he thinks, will make everything better, so he shuffles towards the kitchen. 

“I think I just went on a date with the devil,” he whispers, running a hand over the fish bowl where Mozart has now turned a dark red colour. “Don’t be mad. It was nice. Nothing happened.”

( _Pianissimo_ )

There are more dates after that, even though neither of them dare call them that despite the fact that they know, of course.

There are mornings spent discussing music, afternoons wandering down shopping streets, bubble tea in hand, and evenings trying to find the place that serves the best food in town. There’s one visit to an art gallery where Brett pretty much bails on Eddy halfway through and follows him around absentmindedly, his brain only coming back online when they get coffee in the cafeteria and their ankles cross under the table. There’s an afternoon at the beach that turns into an evening at the beach, that turns into a night at the beach, and it’s such a shame that the overcast skies prevent them from seeing the stars and that they come back with trouser legs drenched up to the knee, but Eddy takes Brett’s hand on the way home and doesn’t let go. And then there’s a visit to the botanical garden one day, complete with bubble tea on a public bench, knees pressed together, bodies leaning towards each other as Eddy shows Brett something on his phone, and Eddy thinks that he’d like to kiss him, but doesn’t do it.

There are countless days when Brett pops up on Eddy’s doorstep, violin case in hand, with always the same sentence tumbling from his lips. _I haven’t played the violin in a long time, maybe we can play together, if you’re free?_

There are countless nights when Eddy thinks, as the end credits of a film play silently in the background and he picks up the remains of the evening, takeout boxes and empty cans scattered across the coffee table, that there should be a way to ask Brett to stay the night that doesn’t make Eddy want to hide his face in his hands.

There are words that mean more than they seem, _I like your playing, nice jacket, you look good_ , actions that shouldn’t be that hard to interpret, _I’m taking this shirt, yeah?_ , and gestures always stopped midway, _I got you a ticket for this Friday, we’re playing Dvorak, if you wanna..._

It’s such a slow pace that sometimes it feels like they’re not moving at all, and while it’s not necessarily bad, there’s some sort of urgency that bubbles in Eddy’s chest, more, faster, a want that grows.

It comes to rest, slowly, the feeling of softness inside Eddy’s ribs, comes out in his smile, settled, appeased. It seeps out through his everyday actions, magic more stable, shiny, music more mellow. _Something happened, no?_ Anthea asks, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, eyes widening a little with curiosity, _you look good lately, you smile more._ There’s a gentleness in her voice. She looks happy for him, reassured by the turn of events. Grace, on the other hand, shakes her head and rolls her eyes, _fuck’s sake,_ she grumbles, _you’re in love again,_ and Eddy wants to protest, wants to say no, tell her to mind her own business, that she doesn’t have to worry, but it’s true, so he nods with a smile threatening to spill, murmurs a yes. _Very much so._

Everyone else notices too, remarks on it without really knowing, _you seem more confident,_ Eddy’s deskie tells him after rehearsals one day, _you’re growing, it shows._

 _As long as you’re happy, baby,_ his mother says, ruffles his hair, but Eddy doesn’t deny or confirm. She’d freak out.

 _If you don’t fucking send me pictures I’ll come take them myself,_ his sister threatens over the phone, chuckling through the menace.

“We need to talk about this,” Brett says one evening as Eddy’s slowly falling asleep against his shoulder, his fingers tangled in Brett’s shirt.

There’s a jolt somewhere in the pit of Eddy’s stomach.

“This doesn’t sound good,” he says, closing his eyes.

“It does sound ominous, right?” Brett says, but he’s playing with Eddy’s hair as he speaks, and it doesn’t sound that ominous, then. “I’d like...”

“Yeah?”

“Hmmm. I don’t know where to begin.”

“Not like you to fall short of words,” Eddy mutters. He’s stalling. It’s a weird moment, a weird conversation. And to think that he was so comfortable just minutes ago...

“Is that a jibe?”

“More like, you’re making me nervous.”

The smile on Brett’s lips is halfway between amused and teasing. “I sure hope so. Look, what I’m trying to say is that I’d like to know where you think this is going, because I very much want to kiss you, but I want to avoid misunderstandings...”

“Now?”

“Now, in ten minutes, yesterday, all the time. Take your pick. The thing is, Eddy, this is pretty much all I got to offer. Can’t stop being who I am, so if you want normal, I don’t want to fool you into thinking that...”

“Fuck normal,” Eddy mutters, suddenly feeling all the frustration of the last few months washing over him, and he truly means it. And, sure, maybe it’s not the most sensible thing to think or say, but it’s not like normal has ever gotten him very far, so yeah. Fuck it. Might as well date the devil.

“There’s also the delicate matter of your soul...”

Eddy sits up and shakes his head. Now? Really? He feels like his head is going to explode if this doesn’t move forward. Brett’s broached the subject now and there’s no putting this jack back in the box. If he doesn’t kiss him soon, he’ll probably just end up screaming his frustration in a pillow.

“Now?” he sighs. “You’re seriously going to bring this up now? Look, I know. I’ve had these powers my whole life. I know what happens in exchange for it. But seriously. Now?”

Brett’s suddenly avoiding his eyes, gaze shifting across the room, fingers fidgeting. “I just don’t wanna...”

“Aaaah, just, argh.”

“It’s important.”

“I’m going to turn you into a fucking frog, I swear,” he says, but he’s closing his fingers around Brett’s shirt again, softly, leaning a little and bringing his forehead against Brett’s, and their glasses clink together but Eddy doesn’t care. He feels his cheeks starting to colour but pushes forward, _you going to do it or not_ said in a breath.

He closes his eyes the moment Brett pulls at his glasses, so he doesn’t see the expression on his face, but he feels the light tremor in the fingers pressing at his jaw.

 _Yes,_ then, said in the same tone, and chapped lips against Eddy’s, a little dry, pushing, and teeth, sinking in lightly, pulling, nice and straight, his tongue behind them, mouth wet, open.

And _yes_ , fuck everything else. He’s in love with the devil. Very much so.

( _Sforzando_ )

It rains less and less, and Eddy stares out the window a little wistfully sometimes. The herbs and plants in the garden need watering, but he’s been kept busy by the weight of a hand in his, the sparkles in dark eyes, the upward curve of familiar lips, everything soft and comfortable, like he’s been shrouded in cotton. There’s still many questions and Eddy doesn’t have all the answers. He doesn’t have a single answer, actually, but there is something almost soothing in just going with the flow.

Brett would argue that there are a lot of things left to discuss, but when Brett isn’t there Eddy can indulge in the normality of his relationship, whatever Brett might say.

 _Speaking of the devil_ , Eddy thinks when the creaking of the door pulls him out of his own thoughts, and he listens to the noises he makes as he moves down the hallway, and the soft curse words muttered under his breath when he stubs his toe against something.

“I’ve let myself in,” Brett calls from the hallway, and Eddy hides his smile.

“I locked the door.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“One day we’ll have to talk about the do and don’ts of the whole wandering through the human world.”

“Or you could just give me a key.”

Okay, so Eddy’s left a little speechless at that. No little quips to come up with because, yeah, he should, shouldn’t he? So he just turns his head to smile at Brett when he enters the kitchen. The devil himself. And yet... Eddy’s completely, utterly weak for just the sight of him. It’s worse, now that he’s allowing himself to.

“I’m taking this jumper.”

Brett’s ignoring Eddy’s look entirely, just heads straight for the piece of clothing hanging from the back of a chair.

“Put it there for you,” Eddy says, turns his head back towards the dishes he was going to wash to stop staring at the man putting on an indecent amount of clothes. _It’s not that cold_ , he wants to say, but holds back. There’s no point arguing with Brett on that. Who would have thought that the devil could be so whiny about the little things?

His attention once again strays from the dishes when two sweater paws slide around his waist.

“You need to water your garden,” Brett mutters against his neck, and Eddy shivers.

He’s perfectly happy and content but sometimes there’s a weight in his chest, little flames licking at the inside of his ribs with the pressure of Brett’s hands, chest pressed to his back, his forehead against Eddy’s shoulder. _More, please._

“I know. How’s Hell doing?” Eddy asks to distract himself from the feelings in his chest.

“Not frozen over yet, so everything’s fine. How’s orchestra?”

Eddy turns his head to nudge at Brett’s head with his, and winces at the stiffness of his neck.

“Old man,” Brett mutters, “how’s orchestra, then?” He sounds tired, which Eddy doesn’t like. 

“Fine, we’re doing Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique next. Wanna come?”

“I’d love to,” he says, then pulls at Eddy’s sweater until Eddy turns around, whining about the dishes that are never going to be washed before Brett shuts him up with a kiss.

Every time that they kiss, Eddy feels himself slowly melting into it, his thoughts turning soft and hazy. It almost feels like a bubble, nothing else but the beating of Eddy’s heart and Brett’s soft breathing, his chest rising up to meet Eddy’s. Eddy wants nothing more than to hold him close, keep chasing after his lips and just let him take everything, every breath and gasp and sigh.

It stops too soon, and Brett smiles his teasing smile, the one he always has when he knows that he’s pushed Eddy just to the edge.

“Do you want to go out for food,” he asks, pressing a quick kiss to the base of Eddy’s neck, eyes twinkling with delight as he looks over Eddy’s shoulder, at something on the counter, “or should I cook something?”

There’s something in the way that Brett smiles that has Eddy looking over his shoulder, and he shakes his head.

“Stop looking at the fish like you’ve won.”

“But I’ve won,” Brett retorts, looking like an evil little goblin as he taps against the glass lightly.

Eddy shakes his head. He wants to laugh, but for the sake of Mozart, he’ll refrain. The fish has now adopted a permanent shade of black, and seems particularly agitated every time Brett is present. It would be stupid to assume that he knows who Brett truly is, but Eddy can’t help but wonder.

“You cook,” he tells Brett as punishment, and they almost burn the kitchen down because Eddy can’t focus when Brett does anything with a little bit of care. There is something about the way he can aim all his attention at a task that makes Eddy’s spine tingle and he can’t concentrate on anything anymore.

Later, when they’re huddled on the couch and Brett’s frowning at some random thing playing on TV, Eddy thinks back to his remark about the key. Would it really be that bad to do it? To let Brett know that this house is his, as much as Eddy’s? Because it is. Eddy wouldn’t want to live with anyone else.

“What are you thinking about?”

He looks up to see that Brett’s eyes have left the screen and are trained on him now.

“Nothing much.”

“That’s not true. But keep your secrets. Anyway, you look tired. I should leave you to rest.”

“Stay tonight?” The words leave Eddy of their own accord, before he has the time to think them through.

“Tempting.”

“Tempting but?”

“Tempting but nothing. I’ll stay if you want.”

Eddy’s not quite sure what happens after that, but then he’s kissing Brett and thinking about the key again, thinking about Brett moving in, and he gasps a little against Brett’s mouth. _If you want normal, I don’t want to fool you_ , Brett had said, but this is normal, Eddy thinks, way too normal, he’s in love with him, and he’s pretty sure Brett loves him too, and how can that not be normal?

Which is why he’s so surprised when Brett’s fingers brush at the edge of his tattoo, press in a little.

“Tickles,” he whines, but it’s a different kind of tickle this time, now that Brett’s leaning into it.

It tickles and it prickles just over his ribs when Brett’s fingers move higher, little flames under his skin, and Eddy gasps again, out of surprise this time. He can feel it travelling up. Power.

“Do you see,” Brett says, jolted out of his action by Eddy’s gasp, and there’s a huskiness to his voice. “Do you see why we need to talk about it?” He looks at his hands, the slightly pink tips of his fingers, guilty.

“What is there to talk about?” Eddy asks, and then, “Again.”

Brett shakes his head. “Eddy...”

“Again. Please,” Eddy says, and Brett relents.

Eddy feels the shivers travel up his back and down his chest, pooling in his stomach, and it feels good until it burns, Brett’s fingers up his back, along his spine, following the lines on his skin, and when he turns his head he thinks he just about catches a glimpse of horns poking under Brett’s hair.

“I don’t want to own your soul,” Brett says blinking as he pulls his hand away. “Not now, not after you die.”

“Too late. Witches have always belonged to the devil anyway.”

“Not like this.”

“No. Not like this. But it doesn’t matter,” Eddy says with a confidence that he’s not certain he actually possesses. It’s still Brett, standing there behind him, but the sheer power still running under Eddy’s skin says otherwise.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Because I love you,” Brett says, and the magic recedes.

( _Crescendo_ )

Eddy knows it, but hearing the words said in Brett’s voice still gets to him, pools in his chest and at the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t have the words to respond to that, to how much he wants and needs him. He paws at Brett’s jumper a little desperately, a hug please, a kiss.

“Let me...” Eddy begins, but he doesn’t finish, the rest of his thought caught somewhere between a choked sigh and a whine. Let me what? He’s not sure he even knows.

He gets his kiss, eventually, Brett leaning up to him softly, like he’s taking all the frenzied worry away from Eddy, brushing all the remaining sparks of raw power from under his skin, _I love you_ , his lips and his hands and his whole body say, and Eddy lets his thoughts be consumed for as long as it lasts.

“Too much power is not good for your heart rate,” Brett murmurs in response to Eddy’s little whine as his tattoo stops burning, like Brett isn’t the sole cause of Eddy’s increasing heart rate.

“You see,” Eddy says when they break apart, his voice sounding breathy and weak, “you see, it’s all good. In the end, I win,” and when Brett looks at him quizzically, he elaborates, “when I die, you get my soul, it’s always been part of the deal. You get my soul, but I get all of you, forever.”

He chokes a little at the end, too much to take on for a moment, the power, the devil, _I love you_ , Eddy’s own body begging for it.

“I do get to be with you forever, yeah?”

There’s something in Brett’s silence that says more than Eddy could’ve ever gotten from words, the genuine wonder in his eyes, the way his breath catches in his throat when he tries to answer. _You want me forever,_ he seems to ask, _really_ , and what can Eddy say but yes? 

Instead he raises a shaky hand to Brett’s face, his fingers losing all their flexibility, nervous, and Brett wraps his fingers around Eddy’s wrist.

“Will it hurt?” Eddy asks when the silence begins to wear him down.

“What?”

“Hell?”

“Oh, no Eddy, no. I promise”

“Then it’s all good, yeah?”

Brett pulls Eddy to him, and wraps his arms around him. “Yes, it’s all good,” he says quietly against Eddy’s chest. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” Eddy says, wriggling free of the embrace to lock their fingers together. “Wanna know something?” He kisses Brett’s fingers before he goes on. “I love you too.”

He’s nervous about it, saying the words, even though he knows they’re true and reciprocated, and he’s nervous still, later, with their fingers still locked together and Brett’s lips along his collarbone, shivers along Eddy’s spine with anticipation.

There’s a neediness that bubbles inside Eddy’s chest, but he’ll take his time, breathe in, keep their fingers together as he brings one of Brett’s arm around his waist, pushes their chests together, his nose brushing against Brett’s jaw as he presses his mouth open to his throat.

He’ll take his time, _I love you,_ calm his beating heart. There are fingertips against Eddy’s ribs, dancing lightly, _don’t... tickles,_ a giggle and hug that doesn’t stop, and Eddy’s lips, impatient, _I love you, I love you,_ and his hands, trembling, almost unsure as they run up Brett’s back, stop at a familiar scar, _I love you_ , kisses up his jaw, down his neck, _I want you._

He’ll take his time, hands at his hips, waists and chests pressed together, let Brett kiss him slowly, soft, warm, clothes coming off unhurried. He’ll take his time, lick inside his mouth, run his fingers through the shorter part of his hair, and it doesn’t matter, Brett, the devil, his fingers bumping against horns, it doesn’t matter. _I love you._

He falls back under Brett’s hands, soft touches, soft sheets, and their knees knock against each other, and Eddy chuckles but his legs fall apart to make space.

Eddy likes him very much, loves him, there’s no shame in that. He likes the way his eyes twinkle with mischief even now, the way his lips part on a gasp when Eddy touches him, the way his breathing hitches as it gets faster. He likes his fingers when they play the violin and when they wrap around him. He likes his voice, when he mocks Eddy gently with a wide grin and no bite at all, when he whispers his name, says _I love you, Eddy._ He likes his nose and his ears and the moles on his face and his mouth, warm and soft and wet around him.

And Eddy’s love takes the form of moans and whimpers, of sighs he can’t hold back, whispered promises that don’t half make sense, _with you, for you, yours, forever, forever_.

He loves him and he’ll let him take everything.

He’s Eddy’s.

He’s Eddy’s when he laughs and sighs and whimpers and when he’s so pretty and careful that Eddy’s almost afraid to touch him. He’s even Eddy’s when he plays the violin or lets him win at Smash or glares at strangers with a cold look in his eyes, and he’s Eddy’s still when he’s mean and plotting. He’s Eddy’s when he grips at Eddy’s hips and kisses his back, and rocks into him slowly, he’s Eddy’s, whether soft and sweet or harsh and demanding, he’s Eddy’s and Eddy’s his.

( _Fortissimo_ )

Nothing is new the next morning, when Eddy wakes up, Brett curled up at his side for warmth, one arm thrown across Eddy’s chest.

Nothing is new but everything feels different, from the light that trickles through the curtains to the patter of the rain against the rooftop, from the quiet in the room to the feel of everything around him. It shouldn’t really feel different, but it does, somehow, and Eddy can’t really decide why. Everything just feels so calm and soft. Maybe he’s just tired.

“Stop thinking,” Brett mutters against Eddy’s shoulder, “it hurts my head.”

Eddy blinks a few times to focus, and turns his head to the side. “How can it hurt your head?”

“Your head, my head, same thing.”

Eddy shakes his head and smiles. He’s ridiculous, with his evil smiles and the way he pokes at Eddy’s ribs to get him to get up, but he loves him. Nothing to be done about that.

“Listen, it’s raining.”

Brett nods, his eyes flitting across Eddy’s face. “Yeah, it is. You really need to stop doing that.”

“Good for the garden,” Eddy mumbles, closing his eyes when Brett runs his fingers through his hair, and he leans into the palm of his hand.

“You’re the weirdest witch I’ve ever met, no effort to hide at all. How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Eddy already feels himself drifting, lulled back to sleep by the sound of Brett’s voice and the soft petting of his hair. “It was nice.”

“Just nice?”

“The best.”

“You’re dumb.”

“I thought you loved me. Again tonight?”

Brett doesn’t answer immediately, but there’s a happy chuckle somewhere near Eddy’s left ear, and he pokes at his ribs again. “I do love you. I’ve loved you from the start, with your panicked eyes and your shitty pizz and your soundless laugh and your magic spilling everywhere. I liked you so much I didn’t know what I was doing, couldn’t keep myself away. C’mon, c’mon now. Up. Let’s go do stuff. I’ll make you coffee.”

“Yes, please,” Eddy answers, looks at him with a smile, and then he closes his eyes again to go back to sleep.

Brett wakes him up with a viola concerto, out of all things, the screeching only rival to the wicked grin on his face, and surely he’s pulled the instrument straight from hell itself. So Eddy pouts a little, until he gets his coffee, until Brett ruffles his hair and drops a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“I could get used to this,” he says.

“Playing the viola?” Eddy can’t help it. Brett isn’t the only one who can be petty.

He jokes but he could get used to this too, to waking up together and talking over breakfast, to the way Brett’s eyes shine with barely hidden fondness when he annoys the fish every morning, to leaving together to their respective work, as if one of them didn’t have the most peculiar of occupations. It feels nice, someone falling asleep next to him every night, someone to hug when he comes back from an exhausting rehearsal, someone who will tell him stories in the evening with such a serious look on his face that Eddy never knows if they’re true or false.

Brett’s making an effort, too, Eddy can see it. He’s not nearly as vicious when he beats Oliver or Shaun at Smash, and he insists that it’s only because they’re Eddy’s friends that he’s nicer, but they’re Brett’s friends too by the end, because Brett’s charming and easy to talk to when he wants to be.

He makes Shaun laugh until his face gets red, and when he helps Thea he doesn’t even ask for anything in exchange. He bonds with Grace the most, over a shared love of teasing Eddy, probably, but it’s all fine. Eddy can do some teasing of his own, when he’s alone with Brett and Brett shivers just from the touch of Eddy’s fingertips.

Eddy loves him, very much, the comfort of having him around, soft, the power in knowing what the other thinks from just one look, jokes that no one understands but them, that leave their friends confused, shaking their heads. He loves the way his arms wrap around Eddy when things get tough, _I know you won’t ask but I would fix this if you did._ He loves the mundane and the ordinary of their day to day life, feed the fish and water the garden and practice music and everything else, so one day, he asks.

“Meet my mom?”

And it’s funny that Brett, who’s always so bold and brash about things, wouldn’t care for anyone else’s opinion save perhaps Eddy’s, and then again, not all the time, physically seems to shrink in the presence of Eddy’s mother – and Eddy makes a note to tease him about it later, because some of Brett’s meanness may have rubbed off on him, or maybe just because it’s fun to do so.

It’s funny, but it warms Eddy’s heart, because it shows that Brett cares.

It goes exactly the way Eddy’s imagined it, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from telling his mother the truth, especially when she takes it upon herself to threaten the devil.

“If you don’t treat him well, I’ll curse you and your family for generations to come,” she says, and Eddy can tell that she’s playing it up to look intimidating, doesn’t mean half of it, but Brett can’t, and for a moment he looks like he’d hide behind Eddy if he could.

“Yes ma’am,” he whispers, subdued, and Eddy can’t help but smile. He’s so fond of him.

And Eddy’s sister laughs and laughs in the background, looking at Brett with sympathy, but she doesn’t mean it any less, when they bid their goodbyes and she gets serious again. “She means it,” she warns, “if you make him sad we’re going to curse you so hard you won’t even know what hit you.”

When they get home, Eddy hugs Brett a little tighter than before, hides his smile in the crook of his neck. “Thank you, for doing this. It means a lot.”

“No problem, dude. I think your mom likes me. Charmed the hell out of her.”

“She will, in time, if you don’t cross her.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They stay like this for a little while, nice and cosy, until it starts raining again, and Brett nudges Eddy in the ribs, _really_ , but Eddy doesn’t react, hugs tighter, with a thoughtful look on his face. Brett’s never had a family, he thinks, no mom to teach him what to do and expect the best of him, to disapprove silently every bad decision and to console him when things get tough, and no sister to tease him gently, to bully him relentlessly, to serve as a model, caring and protective. He’s never had that, but he’s got Eddy now, and Eddy will never, ever, let him fall.

“We’re your family now, right? Mozart and I?”

It’s probably all his imagination that Brett’s eyes get a little wet at this, and that indignation seems to radiate from the fish on the countertop.

“You’re my family, yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you’ve read through all of this, thank you. I really hope you liked it.  
> Have a wonderful day. Take care. 
> 
> (for Enlaurement, because she’s the fairy godmother of this fic, or the tiny devil on my shoulder pushing me forward, whichever she prefers)


End file.
